


Elementary, Actually

by blueink3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Caring John, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Coming In Pants, Fluff and Angst, Love Actually Fusion, M/M, Mike Stamford is a great friend, Mycroft is a good brother, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Smut, Unilock, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-01 17:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12709314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: Just back from the war, 26-year-old John Watson is looking for a job. Luckily, his old buddy Mike Stamford has one in mind:“Mike, you did not tell me this was a porno.”“What? It’s not!”“No? Then why the hell am I being asked to eventually take my kit off and mount some kid who barely looks like he’s out of secondary!”He expects Mike to be angry or indignant on his behalf, but what he does not expect is for the man to burst out laughing on the other end of the phone.“Mike!”“Sorry, sorry. Are you serious? Frankie told me it was an art house/independent type but I thought he meant Little Miss Sunshine, not Eyes Wide Shut!”“Oh my God, Mike, I’m going to kill you.”Or, what happens when the author watches Love Actually with Johnlock in mind.





	Elementary, Actually

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Restricted Work] by [MrsWho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsWho/pseuds/MrsWho). Log in to view. 



> Yes, hi. This is not actually how movie stand-ins work. They usually do say the lines and go through the scenes exactly the way the professional actors eventually do, but imagine it's a film on a budget and they're getting the bare minimum. The bare, sexy minimum.
> 
> Please heed the tags! This is a bit darker and a lot angstier than the fluff ball of Christmas joy that is Love Actually (save the Laura Linney and Emma Thompson storylines. *puts on Joni Mitchell and sobs*)

John curses as he knocks shoulders with yet another Christmas consumer giddily buying presents before all of the good loot has flown from the shelves. She is laden with bags and her cheeks are sherry-tinged pink, and John wants to yell at her to watch where she’s going, but it’s not her fault his miserable arse can’t muster up a bit of holiday cheer.

He bites his tongue and adjusts the walking stick in his hand, continuing to limp down Oxford Street and wondering why oh god why he decided a Saturday was a good time to attempt to find Harry a gift. Not like she’ll get him anything. Maybe some outerwear ( _“Oh, but you always love scarves!”_ ).

Giving it up as a lost cause and resolving to come back on a Monday, when the rest of the normal world is at work, he turns around and stalks in the direction of the tube station, ducking his face into the collar of his coat to hide from the biting wind (maybe a scarf isn’t such a bad idea). He’s still got a few weeks left until the holiday, after all -

Which is the last thing he thinks before he collides rather brutally with an oncoming pedestrian.

“Oi,” he blurts, immediately reaching out to steady the person in front of him and barely registering the clatter of his stick as it falls to the pavement. “You all right?”

“I’m so sorry,” the person says, holding tight to his forearms, “Wait - John?”

John glances up into eyes behind glasses that look only too familiar.

“John Watson?”

“Holy shit, Mike?”

“Jesus, John,” Mike blurts, pulling him into a hug and crushing him against his chest. “Where the hell have you been? Last I heard, you were abroad somewhere getting shot at.” He pulls away and holds him at arm’s length, looking him up and down. “What happened?”

John shrugs his stiff shoulder and bends down with a grunt to pick up the fallen walking stick. “I got shot.”

“Ah,” Mike winces and scratches the back of his head. “Sorry. Right. Well, do you have time for a quick catch up? Lemme buy you a pint. Or two.”

“Uh…” John trails off, looking for an excuse, but he has none. Nothing is waiting for him at that sad excuse for a home. “Sure, yeah. Alright.”

“Anything to get away from this insanity, eh?” Mike chuckles, gesturing to the hanging lights and swelling hoards, but with his round, rosy cheeks, he fits right in.

“Please,” John replies a bit desperately.

Mike leads them about a five minute walk away to a Victorian pub called the Spread Eagle with a black and white checkered floor and dark oak paneling. They squeeze through to a high table in the back and John hooks the handle of his stick over the back of his chair and settles in, letting the warmth of the place thaw the chill from his sore joints.

“Leg?” Mike perfunctorily asks, nodding at the John’s thigh where he massages it as he returns from the bar with two pints.

“Shoulder, actually,” John replies, not elaborating, but Mike merely nods and doesn’t prod further. John is eternally grateful.

“So how long have you been back?”

John takes a sip of his beer and relishes the immediate warmth it brings to his empty stomach. “Just a few weeks. After recovery and rehab and paperwork.”

“Right,” Mike nods, biting his lip as if considering, before leaning forward. “You know, you could have called. The lads have missed you. We still get together all the time, but it’s not the same without our Captain.”

John swallows hard, mortified to find his throat tight. “Ta, I just… needed to get my feet under me.”

“And are they? Under you?” His tone is earnest and lacking all judgment.

John scoffs, but he never could lie to Mike. He swears the man actually is Father Christmas. “As best they can be, I guess.”

Mike fiddles with the coaster, tearing a corner of the cardboard off and John knows the offer is coming before it’s even out of the other man’s mouth. “Do you need a place to stay?”

“Nah, I got a bedsit. It’s about as depressing as anything you can imagine, but it’s a warm bed and a hot bath,” he says with a forced smile. “Can’t afford much more on an army pension.”

“Okay,” Mike relents. “But the offer stands.”

“Thanks. Seriously.” And then, swallowing his pride a bit, he manages, “Actually, if you hear of anyone hiring, I’m all ears. That pension only goes so far.”

“Of course. Barts is overstaffed at the moment, but I may be able to get you on the standby list. You know, for sickness, vacations, maternity leaves, etc.”

“Mike, that’d be great.”

“But if I hear of any part time gigs in the meantime, I’ll pass them on. You remember my little brother, Frankie, right?” John nods. “Just graduated from King’s. He’s always looking for people for some such thing. A bouncer one night. A background actor another. I’ll shoot him a text and see if he’s got anything.”

“Ta,” he replies, trying to infuse the word with more gratitude than he can express because for the first time since he stepped foot on the plane that would take him half a world away, he finally feels happy. In a pub in the middle of tourist central at the peak of the holiday season, he finally feels _home_.

They get another round and talk about family and friends (Mike talks, John listens, as he doesn’t have much of either), but it’s pleasant, reminding him of their days at Imperial before John got shipped off to the army.

“Give me your phone,” Mike chuckles after pint number three, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and gesturing with his thick fingers for John to hand the mobile over.  

“Why?”

“Because I want to put my number in it, you tosser. I refuse to let you become a hermit at twenty-six.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but hands it over anyway.

Mike glances at the inscription, but doesn’t say anything for which John is relieved. Mike’s always been good like that.

“Besides, I’m still with Kathy. I have to have _some_ number to give the ladies when they chat me up. Can’t disappoint them.”

John barks out a laugh and wonders, not for the first time this evening, why he didn’t pick up the phone and call his friends when he got back. It’s not like it’s been that long: four years since uni. Three since they saw him off after basic training.

Mike’s phone buzzes, rattling across the table and distracting John from his self-flagellation. Mike glances at the screen, raises an eyebrow, and rapidly unlocks it.

“Actually,” he says, eyes scanning the text, “I may have that job.”

Hope flares in John’s chest. Anything is better than moping in his gloomy flat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. How do you feel about being a stand-in on a film?”

xxxxxx

John tugs at his collar for the third time since exiting the station as he heads for the studio. The plaid shirt feels odd underneath the navy jumper he wears; he’s not used to “making an effort” after so many months of just surviving.

The night out with Stamford had been good, though. Better than good. So good, in fact, that he even felt inspired to purchase a tiny twig of a Christmas tree that makes Charlie Brown’s look like Rockefeller Center. Sure, it doesn’t have lights or ornaments yet, but one step at a time.

John clears his throat and straightens his hair in the glass door leading to the lobby as he tries to quell the knotting in his stomach. He’s been to war for christ’s sake. He refuses to let a little indie film rattle him. After all, Frankie had assured that no acting would be required. He’s literally just a body, broken though it may be. John had warned him of the walking stick, but Frankie again swore it wouldn’t be an issue. As long as he could stand where he was told, he’d be fine.

“Are you going in or not?” a posh voice deeper than the devil clips behind him and, in the reflection alone, John can already tell that this newcomer has a head of curly hair and a good five inches on him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, nearly tripping over his stick as he steps to the side, finally getting a look at the man - oh, boy, really. He’s… gorgeous. All sharp angles and cool aloofness with cheekbones that could cut glass. And those _eyes._ John has to remember to close his mouth and hope there isn’t any drool on his face.

The beauty of the boy takes a hit, though, when he blatantly rolls his eyes and audibly exhales as he passes, as if John’s very existence is a blight upon society. _Tosser._

Taking a breath both to calm his nerves and ease the desire to throttle the young man ahead of him, John strides through the lobby as best he can with whatever dignity he has left and wait for the lift. The doors open with a _ding_ and His Nibs hits the button for the 6th floor, leaving John to drop his arm to his side rather lamely because that’s where he’s heading too. The sinking feeling in his gut grows stronger.

The lift is slow and John can’t help but watch the boy (and glare) in the reflection of the metal doors. He’s staring down at his phone, thumb working quickly to scroll through whatever’s on the screen. He scoffs under his breath at something he reads, before shoving the mobile back in the pocket of his wool coat and smirking at the fact that John averts his gaze not _quite_ fast enough.

_Idiot._

The doors eventually open once more, revealing a smiling man with dark skin, headset around his neck, and clipboard tucked under his arm.

“You must be John Watson,” he greets, stepping forward and shaking John’s hand firmly. “I’m Tony, the first assistant director. I’ll be working with you most of the time. Frankie told me all about you,” he says, eyes purposefully avoiding the stick, a gesture which may as well have been a blinking neon sign that reads _Yes, he’s been invalided home, ladies and gentlemen._

John offers him a tight smile in return as Tony’s eyes drift behind him. “Ah, you must be Sherlock Holmes.”

The boy doesn’t say anything, merely offers a slight nod as Tony’s gaze darts between them.

“Well I hope you two had a chance to chat on the way up since you’ll be doing most of your scenes together.”

And the bottom drops out from beneath John’s feet. _You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me._

The look of horror on his face must be obvious because the other man - boy - _Sherlock_ \- ducks his head and stares at his shoes, all haughty pretense vanishing for a moment brief enough for John to question its existence but long enough to make him feel guilty all the same.

John clears his throat. “Not as such. Hi,” he says, turning and offering his hand, “John Watson.”

The boy takes it and gives it a perfunctory up and down. “Sherlock Holmes.” The flash of vulnerability on his face makes him seem that much younger, despite the fact that he’s probably a mate of Frankie’s from uni.

“Great,” Tony interrupts, “let’s get started. No costumes for you guys, we’re on a budget, after all,” he quips. “And clothes on for this scene - ”

John misses what Tony says immediately after that because what an odd thing to say. Are there scenes when they’ll be taking their clothes off?

“ - head right over here and Jane will put some makeup on you. Not a lot, but enough to get the lighting right. We don’t want it bouncing off any shiny foreheads.” He chuckles and John joins in, but it sounds strained at best.

He sits at Jane’s station, which has been decorated with garland and fairy lights, and she powders his face, which is probably the first time he’s worn makeup since Harry got a hold of him when he was five. In the mirror, he watches Sherlock type rapidly on his phone with a look of carefully practiced boredom.

“All set,” Jane chirps with a friendly smile. If John weren’t so wrong-footed, he might be tempted to ask for her number, but the next thing he knows, Sherlock is hovering at his elbow, waiting for his turn, so John hurries to make way for him. He moves to the side and tries not to look like he’s glancing surreptitiously over and studying him, but each time he catches those eyes in the mirror, he feels like he’s being flayed open and spread wide as all of his secrets go tumbling to the concrete floor.

“Ready?” Tony asks with a clap, startling John from his thoughts.

“Yep,” he manages as Sherlock smirks next to him, cool facade back in place, and pockets his ever-present mobile once more.

“Oh just make sure those are off,” Tony urges. “Not that we’re doing actual takes, but…”

“Yeah, sure,” John replies, pulling his out and powering it down. He notices Sherlock’s hand does not stray towards his pocket to do the same.

They’re taken down a hallway, passing what can only be the green room where a meager number of crew mill about munching on food, and into a large studio which has been decked out to look exactly like the kind of perfect flat John himself would never be able to afford. All stainless steel appliances and leather couches and marble countertops. He stops, staring transfixed for a moment, before he realizes he’s lagging behind and he limps to catch up.

“Right, we’re running a bit behind - first day hiccups and all - so we’ll dive right in,” Tony says, leading them towards the foyer set up. “First up, we just need to test the shot of you guys walking in the door. Would you mind? John, it’s your character’s apartment, so you enter first.”

John nods and allows a PA to lead them to the other side of the flat’s door. He feels Sherlock close to him, breath moving the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the PA says, finger on her earpiece, and John opens the door, doing what he would naturally do if he were leading someone into his flat for the first time. He steps back and holds the door open, letting Sherlock walk into the foyer, before closing the door again behind him.

“Good, pause there for a second,” Tony’s voice booms over a mic and Sherlock and John hold their places. A lighting guy comes over and adjusts a setting on a piece of technology that looks like something straight out of Star Wars. “Guys, move a bit further into the room, please? John, go stand behind Sherlock as if you’re taking off his coat.”

John does has he’s told, even hooking his stick over his arm and bringing his hands up to brush along the tops of Sherlock’s shoulders. He tells himself the boy shivers because it’s cold in the studio. He tells himself this, but he’s not entirely sure it’s true.

“Great. Just hold there for a moment more.”

Sherlock sighs like this is one big burden and John can’t help but chuckle.

“What?” that sinful voice clips and John shakes his head, not caring that Sherlock can’t see him.

“If you have such disdain for this, why do you do it?”

“It’s a job, isn’t it? Don’t we all need one, Captain?” he sneers over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow and John’s breath stutters in his chest.

“What did you just say?”

But before Sherlock can answer, Tony’s voice is booming through the studio once more. “All set, guys.” He comes bounding out from behind the monitor a moment later, microphone tucked in his pocket. “Come on over to the table now. We need to get the lighting on this shot. Sherlock, hop up.”

John should be worried that Sherlock was told to ‘hop up’ but frankly, he’s too concerned about the fact that the bloody bastard seems to know exactly who he is. Or exactly who he pretends not to be. By the time he comes back to himself, he’s drifted over to the dining room set and is being led over to where Sherlock is… waiting on the table, legs spread wide.

Okay, then.

“Great, John, just step between his legs. In the film, this is going to be a pretty heavy makeout session, but we just need you to embrace.”

_Christ._

John steps forward in between Sherlock’s mile long legs and places his hands on his sides, able to count the ribs beneath his palms. He leans in a bit and gets a whiff of his shampoo, or perhaps aftershave, maybe both, along with cigarette smoke and something distinctly sulfuric.

Tony steps back and lets the director of photography work. “Just hold there, guys.”

John inhales a mix of tobacco and vanilla and decides that this Sherlock person smells entirely too intoxicating for his own good. His fingers tighten as he feels Sherlock’s ribs expand over a sharp inhale beneath his palms. Maybe he’s not the only nervous one.

“Good,” the DOP eventually says and Tony claps his hands once more.

“John, now pull him off the table and flip him over.”

“What the fuck,” he murmurs, low enough so only Sherlock hears him. Sherlock, who has now paled and is looking at John with a vulnerability he didn’t think the man possessed. “You okay?”

Sherlock nods but John frowns.

“You sure?”

He nods again and that haughtiness is back in place. “C’mon, John, just _flip_ me over.”

John huffs out a breath and does as he’s told, yanking Sherlock off the table, spinning him, and pressing him chest down onto the oak, hands bracketed on his hips.

“Perfect, hold there,” Tony calls and John rolls his eyes to the ceiling, feeling his pulse thump against his temple and the vein bulge in his forehead. What the hell has Mike gotten him into?

Beneath his hands, Sherlock’s hips shifts back and forth and if he doesn’t stop that soon they’re going to be in trouble. The boy has folded his arms and pillowed his head on them, looking for all the world like he’s just… hanging out. Having a bit of a rest. That is, until Tony calls:

“John, can you thrust against him a bit?”

_Jesus fucking Christ._

This is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done and that includes Murray’s stag night in Soho. He wants to giggle incredulously but Sherlock has gone stockstill in front of him and John knows that this is no laughing matter.

“That alright with you?” he asks the boy, who buries his face in the crook of his elbow.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he snaps, but John can see his ears are pink.

“Because if it’s not, I’ll stop right now, job be damned.”

Sherlock peeks his face out once more, if only to roll his eyes. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” John sighs, beginning to move against the guy’s (unbelievably fit) arse. This is the most action he’s seen in a year and it takes every ounce of his focus to not get… distracted.

“That’s great, John,” Tony says after what feels like forever and John immediately stops and steps away, giving Sherlock space. “Take a five while we prep the next set.”

John nods and hurriedly limps to the hall, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and hitting **Mike Stamford** so hard, he’s surprised he doesn’t crack his screen.

“John Watson, as I live and breathe. How’s the new job?”

“Mike, you did not tell me this was a porno.”

“What? It’s not!"

“No? Then why the hell am I being asked to eventually take my kit off and mount some kid who barely looks like he’s out of secondary!”

He expects Mike to be angry or indignant on his behalf, but what he does not expect is for the man to burst out laughing on the other end of the phone.

“Mike!”

“Sorry, sorry. Are you serious? Frankie told me it was an art house/independent type but I thought he meant Little Miss Sunshine, not Eyes Wide Shut!”

“Oh my God, Mike, I’m going to kill you.”

“Oh come on, ‘Three Continents’ Watson.”

John’s jaw drops. “How do you even know about that nickname?!”

“Murray talks.”

“Bastard.” John glances down the hallway, but finds it shockingly empty. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries quiet the panic in his chest.

“John, it’s just a job,” Mike says. “A three week one at that. And if you get to flirt with someone pretty, then you’re a sight better than most of us poor sods, yeah?”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

“Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

“Oh piss off.” He hangs up but can’t help chuckling. Despite the situation he finds himself in, he’s very glad to have Mike Stamford back in his life.

He catches sight of Sherlock at the end of the hall and he’s about to go apologize for being a bit rough on the table earlier, but Tony walks out of the green room just ahead and John really needs to clarify just what the hell is going on.

“Hey, uh, Tony?”

“Yeah?” he asks, looking up from an iPad.

“Just, uh, just out of curiosity, what exactly are we doing? I mean, I know what my job is, but what’s, you know, the story?”

“The story?” Tony repeats blankly. “Did no one give you a script?”

John shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony blurts. “Will someone please get my stand-ins a script? Would that be too much to ask?” he calls to the room at large before turning back to John. “So sorry about that. No wonder you both looked so confused. We’ll get this squared away and have you up to speed by tomorrow.”

Tony claps him on the shoulder (the good one, thankfully) and heads back to the studio, and John looks up in time to catch Sherlock’s grateful expression before a harried PA runs up to him to hand him a copy of the script. He stares her down with such imperiousness, though, she nearly sprints when she spies John at the end of the hall.

“Ta,” he murmurs, trying not to laugh, but when he glances back up to share the amusement with his - what, costar? colleague? - he’s gone.

The rest of the day passes in much of the same fashion. The director comes in and changes a couple of the shots, which means John and Sherlock redo some of the setups they’d done before. It’s not as organized as a proper studio film but it’s not a student film either (not that John would necessarily know the difference). They get another crack at the table scene, and this time when John is asked to step between Sherlock’s legs, he brings his hands up to Sherlock’s back and holds him just a little bit tighter.

John breathes, slow and steady, closing his eyes and savoring the feel of someone in his arms once again. His touch-starved body craves it like a parched man stumbling across a river.

And if John is asked to hitch Sherlock’s leg up over his hip, then so be it. But he does it gently this time. Reverently, almost. Sherlock still looks down his nose at him, but doesn’t say much. No, his eyes just scan John’s face like he’s reading every secret John’s ever had - even the one about the candy bar he shoplifted on a dare when he was ten because his friends were wankers and his mum wouldn’t let him have Mars Bars.

He reads the script on the breaks they do have, eyebrows climbing higher and higher with every passing scene. It’s well-written, not porn and not explicit sexuality just for nudity’s sake, but still - John knows he’ll be taking a long shower when he gets home.

And not a cold one.

xxxxxx

The next two days pass without incident, but that may be because John and Sherlock say perhaps five words between them total. When John says hello in the morning, he only gets a grunt in response. When he asks if Sherlock is okay with a particular move Tony is asking them to do, Sherlock manages a “yes” or a “fine” if he bothers acknowledging the question at all. And the rest of their scenes on those days are done separately.

It makes for a work experience that’s rapidly turning out to be just as lonely as his home life.

John sighs as he pushes open the door and braces against the blast of another frigid Thursday night, watching the silhouette of Sherlock disappear rapidly around the corner just as he had done the previous evening.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed that the boy didn’t say goodbye, and he nearly believes it.

Which just goes to show he’s getting better at lying to himself.

xxxxxx

**Did you bring your breath mints?**

John rolls his eyes at the text from Mike and makes his way into the coffee shop for a much-needed, end-of-week caffeine boost. He’s not sticking his tongue down anyone’s throat today, thank you very much. And besides, every PA (not that there are many; it is a film on a budget) seems to have a utility belt packed with everything under the sun anyway, so he’s prepared should the rules change.

But they won’t. Of course not. No point even getting his hopes up.

To be perfectly honest, though, he has no idea what the rules even _are_. Despite reading the script, he’s pretty much been winging it. The email that came in from Tony that morning said they were doing the dinner scene followed by the morning after scene, which is just John alone in bed, his partner having left early before he’d woken. He doesn’t relish the thought of having to take his shirt off. His scar is still an angry red, not yet having faded to the pink and white monstrosity the nurses assured him he’d have for the rest of his life.

“Grande coffee,” he says to the girl behind the counter as he digs some coins from his pocket.

But there’s nothing for it. He’s already the-guy-with-the-limp. He might as well be the-guy-with-the-limp-who’s-been-shot.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” that oh-so-distinct voice says behind him and he turns to find Sherlock sodding Holmes clutching a venti of something, decked out in his dark jeans, black jumper, and high collared wool coat. He looks like he stepped off the pages of a bloody Burberry campaign.

“Good morning,” John mutters, not awake enough for pleasantries.

“Good morning,” Sherlock replies. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John sighs as he takes his coffee and limps back to a recently vacated table by the window. “How the bloody hell do you do that?”

“Observed,” Sherlock says, sliding into the seat across from him without invitation. “Just as I observed your limp’s psychosomatic and you’re dreading taking your shirt off today due to the rather fantastic scar spanning your left clavicle.”

John gapes. “How do you know about the scar?” Has he been watching him? There’s no possible way he knows -

“You were shot in the shoulder. Of course you have a scar.”

John stares at him, before shaking his head and smiling. He wants to chin him, but he’s too damn impressed. “You’re a marvel, you know that?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raise and he stares at his cup, picking at the sleeve with his thumbnail. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“And what do people usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John chuckles and takes a sip, the liquid burning his tongue on the way down. “I don’t doubt it. You could stand to be a bit nicer, you know.”

The boy shifts in his seat but says nothing.

“This whole ‘aloof’ thing you’ve got going on isn’t doing you any favors. How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one,” Sherlock murmurs. “And you’re twenty-six.”

John hums. “I won’t bother asking how you know that, either. I assume you’re a mate of Frankie’s?”

“Acquaintance.”

“Ah.” They settle back into silence, one which John uses to his advantage. The kid (and he calls him ‘kid’ because despite the fact that John is only five years his senior and still a kid himself, war has a habit of aging you prematurely) is beautiful. A pain in the arse, but beautiful. “Now allow me to make a deduction of my own,” he says, going out on a limb, but one he’s pretty sure will hold.

“Oh? And what’s that?” Sherlock mocks, hackles already back up.

“You’re a virgin.”

Sherlock’s lips pop open and his eyes widen, that cool veneer falling away to reveal something a lot younger. A lot more defenseless.

The annoying din of pop covers of Christmas classics hangs heavily in the air as they silently regard one another.

“It doesn’t matter,” John continues, taking another sip of coffee.

“Then why bring it up?” Sherlock replies hotly.

“Because neither does my service,” he calmly returns, leaning down to meet Sherlock’s gaze which has strayed to a water ring on the table.

Eventually those cerulean eyes meet his and he nods, shifting in his seat once more, before blurting out, “I hate the holidays.”

John snorts at the non-sequitur, but is grateful for it. “You won’t hear any argument from me.”

“The lights, the music, the _family._ Tedious.”

“Agreed.”

Sherlock takes a sip of whatever sugary concoction is in that venti (and is it sugary, make no mistake. John can smell the syrup from across the table) and says, “No big family traditions for you?”

John raises an eyebrow. “Can’t you deduce?”

Sherlock’s lips quirk. “I can, but I’m trying to be - what was your word? _Nice_.”

John looks up as a young mother tries to guide her toddler, who’s wrapped up to the gills against the winter cold, out of the shop.

“And who are we going to see?” she says.

“Santa!” the child cheers with a lisp, attempting to raise an arm in victory and nearly toppling over in the process.

Sherlock looks like he swallowed a lemon, but John just smiles softly. “No, no family.”

“Except the brother,” Sherlock murmurs, nodding to John’s mobile where it sits face down on the table.

John glances at the inscription and gives the boy across from him a smug smile. “Harry’s short for Harriet.”

“Damn,” he curses before he shrugs those bony shoulders. “Oh well. Can’t win them all.”

“Valiant effort, though.” He stands and grasps his stick, ignoring the way Sherlock studies it.

“You don’t need that, you know.”

“So they say. But - phantom pain is still pain.” He proves this by limping out the door with Sherlock trailing at his back.

The studio isn’t far - just a couple of blocks - and the younger man keeps pace with him despite the fact that it’s well below his usual speed. It oddly warms John’s chilled limbs given that he’s so used to being left behind these days.

They ride the lift together in silence once more, but it’s comfortable silence this time, and when they reach the 6th floor, the general chaos surrounding him isn’t nearly as overwhelming. Something has… shifted between them. Not thawed entirely, but changed.

He makes his way to the green room, Sherlock still his silent shadow, and checks in with the PA (whose name he learns is Maggie). She hands him a pair of dark oxfords, explaining that the shot they’re prepping starts on their shoes before panning up their bodies to catch them at dinner. John’s brown boots will skew the light readings. Sherlock is already wearing black boots so he’s free to remain as is.

He swiftly changes and leaves his coffee in the green room as Maggie leads them to the set. It’s an intimate shot apparently, because they’ve only constructed part of the restaurant in the corner of the studio, involving maybe three tables. He and Sherlock take a seat across from each other.

“John, let your right foot touch Sherlock’s left. It’s a bit of foreplay here,” Tony calls from behind the monitor.

John clears his throat and moves his leg forward, letting the side of his shoe brush Sherlock’s boot. The lighting guys do some things with their Star Wars gadgets while John mindlessly fiddles with the silverware in front of him. But then Sherlock shifts his leg, letting his ankle brush John’s and the hand on his knife stills.

John narrows his eyes. “What are you playing at?”

“Sherlock, that’s great. Keep that up,” Tony calls.

The younger man gives John a smug smile and presses his ankle against him again.

“Foreplay, John,” that baritone rumbles and John rolls his eyes.

“Like you know what that is,” he teases quietly.

The fact that Sherlock glances at the-powers-that-be having a meeting behind the monitor to make sure they’re not paying any attention should be John’s first clue that the madman across from him is about to do something ridiculous, but then Sherlock slips his foot out of his unlaced right boot and settles it in between John’s thighs, brushing just shy of where John actually wants him.

“Don’t I?” he asks, pressing just a bit harder. Just a bit higher.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” he nearly groans, eyelids fluttering as his trousers begin tighten much faster than they have any right to. “Stop it right now.”

“Spoilsport,” he murmurs, removing his foot and slipping it back into his boot.

John’s palm is sweaty around the knife he now has in a death grip and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply and willing his stiffy away. “Not funny,” he whispers after a moment.

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock replies. “Enlightening, though."

“Sorry for the delay, guys,” Tony shouts, making both of them jump. “Just working through an issue.”

John clears his throat and calls back, “No problem.”

They sit there for about ten minutes further, eyeing each other and trying to look like they’re _not_ eyeing each other. Finally, Tony blessedly announces a wrap on that scene and John swiftly pulls his foot away from Sherlock’s and stands on shaky legs.

He doesn’t even notice he’s left his walking stick on the floor by the table until he’s a solid five meters away. He stumbles when he realizes and turns to retrieve it, but Sherlock stands right there holding it in his grasp, a fierce look of determination on his face.

“I _told_ you. You don’t need this.”

“Sherlock, give it to me.”

“No.”

But before the argument can get heated, Tony approaches with his trusty clipboard in his hand. “John, if you want to follow me to the bedroom,” he says, already leading the way to the set on the other side of the room. “Take your shirt off, but you can leave everything else on. Sherlock, you’re free to go.”

The boy nods, but remains where he is, still holding the walking stick and watching quietly as John sighs and undoes the buttons on his plaid flannel shirt. The fabric falls away and John attempts to control his breathing as his heart thunders in his chest. Shaking fingers grip the hem of his vest and he closes his eyes, waiting for the gasps. Waiting for the disgusting or, god help him, _pitying_ looks. Sure enough, they come before the cotton is even over his head.

“Jesus Christ, John,” Tony blurts. “Frankie said you’d been to war, but…”

“People get shot in war,” Sherlock states, saving John from having to respond.

Tony sheepishly nods and hurries away to hide behind the monitor as John’s ears burn.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

“They’re idiots.”

John smiles softly and holds his hand out for the walking stick, which Sherlock (finally) places in his palm. “Gunshot wounds are not something that people should have to see. Scarred or otherwise. I don’t blame them for being shocked.”

But Sherlock doesn’t respond. He merely steps forward and tilts his head, eyes darting this way and that across the jagged and gnarled skin. “Shot in the back.”

John hums and turns, allowing the young man and his hungry gaze to take a look at the entrance wound.

“Fascinating,” he breathes, before catching himself with a hitch. “I mean - sorry. It’s not fascinating for you. Obviously.”

John turns back around and smiles, enjoying watching this usually brilliant boy trip over his words. “It’s fine. I’m sure you could probably chart the bullet’s trajectory and what kind of weapon it was just by glancing at this thing,” he says, gesturing to his shoulder.

Sherlock swallows and nods, but chooses not to. “You don’t need to relive that again.”

John tosses his shirts on the floor by the bed and slides in under the covers. “You’re a right prat, but you can actually be very sweet when you want to be, you know.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs, turning swiftly and stomping off the set, John’s laughter following in his wake.

xxxxxx

The next half or so is actually quite delightful as he’s basically getting paid to lay in a bed.

John closes his eyes and allow his mind to drift, second-guessing his present for Harry (she doesn’t need another jumper) and wondering if this is the year to actually make an effort and buy her something original. He should add Mike to the pathetically short list of people he needs to shop for now that the ridiculous man is back in his life. Part of him (an insane, overeager, entirely ahead-of-himself part) wonders if Sherlock should go on the list too, but the kid’s basically a stranger. John doesn’t even know what university he goes to (King’s presumably, if he’s a friend - _acquaintance_ \- of Frankie’s) or if he’s even still _in_ uni. Tosser probably graduated early if he deigned to show up for his classes.

No, Sherlock should definitely not go on the Christmas shopping list. Yet. No, not ever. Maybe. _Christ, Watson, get it together._

“John, we’re all set here. Thanks, man,” comes Tony’s voice, rousing him from his musings.

He groans and rolls his shoulder, kicking the sheets back and swinging his jean-clad legs over the side of the bed.

“Hard day’s work,” Sherlock says, appearing out of nowhere while John struggles to get his vest back over his head.

“I thought you left.”

“Oh Sherlock, you’re still here,” Tony greets, jogging up to them. “Perfect. Actually, before you boys disappear today, there’s a chance we may get to scene 13 on first unit, so we’re going to prep it just in case on the living room set while they film here. Cool to hang around a bit longer?”

John is fine with that. He’d rather work than return to his empty bedsit and sad excuse for a Christmas tree.

“Sure,” John replies, racking his brain, trying to remember which one scene 13 is. But the look on Sherlock’s face tells him he’s probably going to regret just how eagerly he acquiesced to that proposal.

“Great,” Tony says, leading them over to the living room. “John, Maggie’s got some water for you if you want it. And you can keep the shirt on, just the vest, but we’ll need yours off, Sherlock. Gotta test the lighting against your skin for this one.”

It’s a simple enough request (hell, John just did it) but Sherlock freezes, long fingers clutching the bottoms of his sleeves.

“Didn’t take you for the modest type,” John murmurs as takes the cup from Maggie with a smile of thanks and sits on the sofa. The sofa they’re going to be grinding upon, he realizes, as scene 13 comes back to him. _Lovely._

“John,” Sherlock begins, licking his lips, “please try not to think any less of me.”

“Oh what,” he chuckles, “you care about my good opinion now?”

But Sherlock doesn’t reply. He merely closes his eyes in resignation and reaches back to tug the black jumper over his head, letting his arms and the fabric fall to his sides. John nearly drops the cup of water.

_No._

Leaning in, he takes hold of Sherlock’s skinny wrist and tugs him forward, running his hand over the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, fingertips catching on the rough and scarred skin.

“Is that why you’re doing this job?” he eventually grits out, glancing up. “For drug money?”

Sherlock’s mouth opens but he flounders for a moment. “It was.”

But before John can ask him what the hell that means, Tony is coming back over to position them. Sherlock hastily bends his left arm under the pretense of protecting himself from the cold as he’s told to lie on his back and spread his legs so John can lie between them. He does so with an audible gulp.

“Can’t fucking believe you,” John mutters as he kneels on the sofa and rests his weight on his palms on either side of Sherlock’s head. “Such a goddamn waste.”

“I don’t need your judgment at the moment,” Sherlock whispers, but it contains none of the bite John usually associates with the prickly young man.

He sighs and closes his eyes, leaning down to rest more of his weight on his right elbow to alleviate the pain already coursing through his left shoulder.

“This isn’t good for you,” Sherlock murmurs, long fingers skating up John’s back to dig into the muscles around his shoulder blade.

“Yeah, well. I need the money. To live. Not to fucking try to kill myself.”

Sherlock’s fingers fall away after that and John tries to tell himself he’s not disappointed.

“Gents, we actually are going to need some movement here, so, John, if you wouldn’t mind. No snogging necessary. Just, you know, frotting.”

“Wonderful,” John mutters, slowly beginning to roll his hips. Sherlock’s mile-long legs immediately come up and hook around the backs of John’s thighs, fusing them together.

They continue for a couple of minutes, silent save for the panting of their breath. It’s not the workout it’d be if John were doing this for real, but it’s more than he’s used his shoulder since he got out of rehab. Sweat is beginning to bead at his brow.

“Christ,” Sherlock suddenly whispers, biting his lip and turning his face into the back of the sofa.

“What?” John spits, still annoyed with the boy below him, but Sherlock merely shakes his head and squeezes his eyes tight. It doesn’t matter - John feels it a moment later. “Sherlock.” He pauses but hands find his hips a moment later and urge him on.

“Don’t stop, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

“Well, I can’t keep - ”

“You have to.” His legs tighten now. “Please.”

“Fuck,” John manages, but continues rolling his hips and trying not to think about what’s happening between their bodies. “I’m sorry.” He tries to take all of his weight off of the boy, yet stay close enough to shield his erection from the rest of the room. As it is, they still make contact.

They continue on, but despite their best efforts, Sherlock is rapidly losing control.

“John - ” he whimpers, biting his lower lip so hard, John’s surprised he’s not drawing blood.

“Okay.” John leans down, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. “It’s okay,” he whispers, carding his fingers through his curls.

“God, John. I can’t help it,” he mutters. “I’m going to come.”

John barely bites back a groan and is eternally thankful they’re not miked, as he presses a hand to Sherlock’s hip to keep him from noticeably bucking and smashes their lips together to muffle Sherlock’s moans as the boy stiffens beneath him.

John has never been more grateful for his self-control than he is in this moment.

Sherlock shivers, gasping for breath around the press of John’s lips, until finally John pulls away, letting his thumb rest against Sherlock’s mouth instead and nosing his way to his ear.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs again. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock exhales a shaky breath and releases a noise that sounds like a sob, so John cups Sherlock’s cheek with his left hand and turns his face towards the back of the sofa again, effectively hiding him from the room. Sherlock’s nose presses into John’s temple and John runs his thumb back and forth over that sinful cheekbone, all concerns about drugs and money and motives gone.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, slightly turning his face to catch Sherlock’s eyes, which are full to the brim. In no way does he look like the 21-year-old posh brat he’d like the world to think he is.

“That’s great,” Tony says, breaking the tension. “You guys can stop.”

John immediately pulls his hips away from Sherlock’s, knowing he’ll likely be sensitive and looks down into his face, still cupping his cheek. “You alright?” he whispers after a moment.

Sherlock swallows and nods, closing his eyes as he flushes with shame.

“Hey,” John murmurs, nudging his chin and forcing their eyes to connect. “I said it was okay and it is.” He glances down, but the mess isn’t noticeable. Thank god for dark wash jeans.

Tony comes over and claps him on his bad shoulder and it’s all John can do to not cry out in pain. “Good job with the kiss. Helped us pinpoint some issues we have to fix with shadowing.”

“Cheers,” John manages, sitting on the sofa purposefully next to Sherlock’s hips to hide any evidence and rolling his shoulder.

“Sherlock, good job, man,” Tony says to him, holding out a hand. Sherlock takes it lethargically, and John is at least thankful that the track marks are on his _left_ arm because he’s in no state of mind to hide anything from anyone at the moment. “Judy’s got this week’s paychecks in the green room whenever you’re ready and we’ll see you on Monday.”

“Ta,” John says, smiling as Tony walks away before turning and staring at the boy who just orgasmed in his arms. “Can you stand?”

“That remains to be seen,” he mutters and John snorts.

“Come on.”

“Where?” Sherlock groans.

“I just made you come and, if I’m not mistaken, that’s the first time you have with anyone other than yourself, so I figure the least I can do is take you out to dinner.”

Sherlock flushes even further.

_Oh we can do better than that._

John leans down, lips brushing the boy’s ear. “But perhaps some new pants first.”

When he pulls away, Sherlock’s face resembles the shade of the double-decker buses driving by outside.

xxxxxx

They stroll down the street in silence, Sherlock having made an already uncomfortable walk to M&S to purchase a new set of pants, wiping himself down and changing in the loo, before joining a trying-hard-not-to-laugh John back outside.

“S’not funny,” he mutters as he tosses the soiled briefs in the bin and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“No,” John replies, expression sobering. “No, it really wasn’t.” He slows his gait, walking stick long forgotten at the studio, and puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m not some swooning Victorian virgin.”

“No, but I still feel like I - ”

“What? Took advantage of me?”

“Well, sort of!” John replies. “You experienced a sexual act that you did not want to at my hands.”

“John, it’s a job I signed up for. I’m an adult. You treated me... “ he trails off and stares at his boots, digging his toe into the unmoving pavement. “You treated me better than I think anyone else would have in that moment and I am more grateful than you could know.”

John’s features soften and he offers a small smile, before squeezing Sherlock’s elbow. ”Come on, then. Before you start spouting poncy poetry to me.”  

A relieved expression passes across Sherlock’s face before John turns and continues, letting Sherlock catch up.

“Where are we going, by the way?” he asks when Sherlock’s shoulder bumps his.

“Italian place. Owner owes me a favor.”

John raises a dubious eyebrow. “The owner owes you a favor?”

Sherlock pauses outside the restaurant and opens the door. “Got him off a murder charge last year.”

“What the - ?” But before the rest of the sentence is even out of his mouth, a booming voice is shouting “Sherlock!” and next thing John knows, the boy at his side is being picked up by a man who would fit right in as an extra in Goodfellas.

“Anything on the menu free, whatever you want on the house, for you and for your date,” he says, beaming at both of them.

John doesn’t correct him but Sherlock sheepishly mutters, “He’s not my date,” as he settles into his seat in the window.

The proprietor (whose name John learns is Angelo) doesn’t hear him, or chooses not to, deciding instead to say, “Be right back with a candle for the table. More romantic.”

“He’s not my - !” But Sherlock doesn’t finish, giving it up as a lost cause as John giggles into his menu.

“Friend of yours?”

Sherlock grunts. “I successfully proved to the Met at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was, in fact, in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.”

“Excellent,” John replies, because what the hell does one say to that?

Sherlock puts his napkin in his lap and leans his elbows on the table. “You have questions.”

“Yup,” John replies, nodding and mimicking his position. “The Met?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’ve been trying to help them when they’re out of their depth. Which is always. Occasionally they let me. Most of the time, they don’t.”

John has a feeling he looks absolutely besotted. “You solve crimes.”

“Sometimes.”

“A vigilante.”

“Only when the Met doesn’t listen.”

“You’re basically Batman,” he blurts. It gets a laugh from Sherlock, which had been John’s goal all along.

“I actually grew up wanting to be a pirate. Seems I saw the error of my ways.”

John can just picture it: six-year-old Sherlock with a tricorn and wooden sword, terrorizing the family dog. He looks down at the table, measuring his next words carefully. “Why the drugs, then? You’re too fucking brilliant for that.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but John steamrolls right over whatever argument he had been about to voice.

“No, don’t give me that rebellious crap. You just told me you got a man off a triple murder charge. You’re fantastic. Why do you muddy the waters with that shit?”

Sherlock shifts in his seat and glances at the menu he no doubt has memorized. “It helps me think.”

“Bullshit,” John replies. “I was a medic. I know that’s not how it works.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a breath to calm himself down. He has no idea why Sherlock gets him so worked up (that’s a lie - he knows _exactly_ why Sherlock gets him so worked up). “At least I know you’re not high right now,” he murmurs eventually.

Sherlock nods. “I’ve been clean for three months.”

“So what was this job then?”

“A safety net?” Sherlock shrugs again. “A backup in case I relapsed. I almost feel less tempted if I have the means to get what I need. It’s when I don’t that I panic.”

“And then you get desperate.”

“Yes.”  

They quiet as Angelo comes and opens a bottle of chianti with a flourish. John offers him a smile as he fills their glasses and then he disappears just as quickly as he came. John swirls the wine, watching as the light from the candle casts purple shadows on the table, the question on the tip of his tongue.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock says, always one step ahead of him.

John smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Have you gotten tested?”

“Why?” Sherlock cheekily replies. “Planning on taking advantage of me later?”

John blushes because he’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind (not the taking advantage aspect, though. He only dabbles in consensual naughtiness, thank you very much). “Just concerned.”

“Why?”

“Because I am, Sherlock! Is it that unbelievable that someone might actually have an interest in your well-being?”

“Yes!”

The response stops John’s argument cold and he stares at the enigma of a boy in front of him. He sighs and takes a sip, groaning as the frankly delicious wine pops on his tongue.

“Why did you agree to this if you’re so new to it?” he asks after another moment.

“I didn’t know exactly what it was.”

“Yeah, well that makes two of us.”

Sherlock takes a gulp of his wine, as if steeling himself for what he has to say next. “You realize we’re probably going to have to get naked, right?”

John coughs around his next sip, but manages to swallow without choking. “Yeah, I worked that bit out for myself.”

“Are you okay with that?” Sherlock challenges and John raises an eyebrow.

“Are you?” He leans forward. “Due respect, but I’m not the one who came in my pants not an hour ago.”

Sherlock flushes again and he really must stop doing that. It’s messing with John’s head.

“I’m okay if it’s with you,” he finally whispers, so quietly that John has to lean forward further just to catch exactly what he said.

“Oh,” he replies rather dumbly. The wine is warming the pit of his stomach but the boy across from him is doing a pretty fine job of taking care of the rest. “You know I - “ he licks his lips, needing to get this right. “You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

Sherlock glances up, eyes soft. “I do.”

“Good.”

The conversation is halted as Angelo comes back to take their order with Sherlock getting the ravioli and John the pappardelle. They move onto less incendiary topics after that: christmas plans, the weather, family. John learns that Sherlock has an older brother called Mycroft who’s apparently more than a bit meddlesome. His parents are loving, but frequently traveling.

John’s are dead. And his sister’s an alcoholic.

The conversation dies out pretty quickly after that.

They share tiramisu, forks clinking as they dig for mascarpone, before settling back against the backs of their seats, utterly stuffed. Angelo eventually waves them off, even chasing John down when he tries to leave cash for a tip. The chilled air brings John back to his chianti-dulled senses a bit and, for the briefest of moments, he forgets about the depressing bedsit he has to return to. It doesn’t matter because, right now, there’s snow in the air, Christmas music filtering in over the wind, a wonderful meal in his stomach, and a handsome guy by his side.

Yes, John thinks. This is a very good night.

 _“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart_  
_And the very next day, you gave it away.”_

“Where do you live?” he asks as they bump shoulders, making their way down the road in a direction that John isn’t even sure is the right one.

“I, uh, I live at home. I had a flat on Montague Street, but it was determined that I couldn’t be trusted on my own.”

“Ah,” John says, nibbling his lip as he considers his next words. “Do me a favor?” he asks, stopping on the pavement and bringing Sherlock to a halt beside him.

“Yes?”

“Stay clean? Until we’re finished? For me?”

Sherlock’s features immediately harden. “Why? Afraid I’ll give you something with all of our grinding?”  

“No.” John shakes his head, not rising to the bait.

“I have been tested by the way,” Sherlock spits. “Just in case you were worried.”

“About you, yes,” John calmly replies. “Not about me.” Then, looking a lot bolder than he feels, he reaches out and carefully takes Sherlock’s hand. “Stay clean for me. At least until we’re done.”

“We’ll be done by Christmas.”

John smiles sadly. “Then you won’t have long to wait.”

Sherlock is still looking skeptical, but he has yet to release John’s hand. In fact, he holds it tighter. “Thank you for today.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I think I do,” he simply replies, gaze flicking between John’s eyes and his lips.

Oh God, this boy will be the death of him.

“Sherlock,” he breathes, leaning in, but before he can make contact, the warmth of the body in front of him is gone.

“I have to go,” the boy blurts, turning on his heel and hurrying down the block and around the corner before John can even think to call his name.

And John stands there, staring blankly, snowflakes burning his eyes as he tries to comprehend what the hell just happened. Did he cross a line? Sherlock can sometimes seem like a skittish colt, but John is 98% positive that the boy initiated what he had assumed would be a very passionate, but respectable snog.

And maybe that was it. He is… new to all of this. Perhaps he’s just scared. Hell, John hasn’t done this in years. _He’s_ scared.

Feeling more confused than ever (and unable to shake the memory of Sherlock falling apart in his arms no matter how hard he tries), John trudges to the tube station, limping a bit at the pain in his thigh, and reads the call sheet for Monday on his phone while waiting for the train.

His stomach drops:

**Scene 15: Bedroom Scene #2**

Looks like the clothes are coming off sooner than he expected.

_Shit._

xxxxxx

John drums his fingers on the bar and glances at the door for the fifth time in as many minutes. Mike is running late and John tries to distract himself by watching the football on the television, but West Ham is doing nothing to ease the anxiety in his gut. Especially considering he just ordered a gift for Sherlock online which he _told_ himself he wouldn’t do, but he never has been good at listening to his better angels. Why start now?

He finishes his first pint and is truly considering ordering a second when Mike finally bustles through the door, shaking the late afternoon snow from his hair.

“Bloody hell, mate,” John breathes when he gets within hearing distance. “About time.”

“Sorry, sorry. Bloody traffic.” He pauses. “Where’s your stick?”

“I have a problem,” John blurts in return.

“Did you lose it?”

“What?”

“Your _stick_ , John.”

“Oh no. Apparently I don’t need it,” he says with a flick of his wrist. Mike sits and John ignores his muttered, “Could have told you that,” as he signals for the bartender to get a beer for Mike and another for himself.

“So what the hell is this emergency you called about? Frankie said the film is going fine.”

John scoffs. “Fine’ is a relative term. If by ‘fine,’ you mean, yes, I want to shag my co-stand-in’s brains out and yet hide him away and protect him from the world, then _yes,_ ” he spits. “Things are _fine._ ”

Mike stares at him wide-eyed. “Damn, John.”

He covers his face with his hands and groans. “He’s 21. And the most brilliant guy I’ve ever met. Gorgeous and stubborn as all get out.”

“What’s the problem?” Mike asks, taking a gulp of his beer to catch up.

John peeks out from behind his fingers. “He’s a virgin.”

“Ah,” his friend replies. “And John ‘Three Continents’ Watson takes issue with that.”

“No, Jesus, will you stop with that shit?” John snaps. “This isn’t about sex. I mean, it is. We’re simulating it every other day, but… I like him.”

“And…?”

“I don’t want to ruin it. He... “ John sighs, ears burning as he takes a healthy swig of his drink. “He got a little too excited yesterday.”

“I see,” Mike replies with a serious, sincere expression and John is so relieved he could kiss him.

“I think it scared him, and I don’t - I don’t want to do that. He just…” He groans. Words are hard. “I mean, Jesus, Mike, he makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt since I left.”

Mike’s smile is soft and fond over the rim of his glass. “I can see that.”

But John barrels on like a runaway locomotive because he has no one else to talk to and now that he’s started, there’s absolutely no stopping him. “And we went out for dinner last night and it was great, but at the end, I thought he was going to kiss me and then he bolted. Like, leaned in, eyes closed, and then bolted like a cat. And we have to get naked on Monday - like _properly_ naked - and I have no idea what the fuck to do. Oh also, he’s a recovering drug addict and I’m terrified any wrong move I make is going to send him into a relapse.”

He finally stops to take a breath and glances up to find Mike staring at him slack-jawed, forgotten pint glass halfway to his mouth.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he finally mutters. “I need another before I can begin to unwrap all of that.”

And with that, he promptly downs his beer.

xxxxxx

It takes all of Sunday for John to recover from his night out with Stamford and by the time Monday rolls around, his body is rebelling for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.

It’s a closed set, meaning all of the unnecessary PAs and friends of the sound guy have been banned. John’s not one to be shy - he was in the army after all - but for Sherlock’s sake, he’s grateful. Sherlock, whom he still has yet to lay eyes on. He truly wonders if Friday was just too much and the boy walked. It wouldn’t surprise John. He’d be devastated in his own quiet way, but it wouldn’t surprise him.

He changes in the office that’s been converted into a dressing room. Wardrobe had given him a “pouch” for lack of a better word to hold his bits. It doesn’t do much for his modesty, but he supposes it’s better than nothing. Right now, though, it’s riding up in places he’d really rather it not under the (thankfully) fluffy dressing gown they’ve given him.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and he turns, fully ready to thank Maggie for the coffee she said she’d get him, but he finds himself face to face with the man he’s been waiting for instead.

“Oh,” he blurts, immediately cursing himself. _Great opening, Watson._

“Hi,” Sherlock replies, holding out a coffee from the shop they met in just the other day.

“Thanks,” John murmurs, taking the cup and sipping. It’s infinitely better than whatever dreck Maggie would have found in the green room.

Sherlock stares at his feet, shuffling his boots back and forth across the carpet. He’s still in sinfully skinny jeans and another dark-hued jumper today. Deciding he’s not going to say anything further, John turns and attempts to untwist the straps on the blasted thong without completely flashing the kid and scaring him off for good.

“I… apologize about Friday,” Sherlock eventually says, and John glances up as he ties the dressing gown around his waist once more, having fixed the issue.

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“There is. I - I had a nice time.”

John cocks his head and studies him. “As did I.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“Leave me alone in the middle of the street?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies quietly. “That.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” he says, thinking of his diatribe to Mike just the other day with a wince:

 _“If by ‘fine,’ you mean, yes, I want to shag my co-stand-in’s brains out and yet hide him away and protect him from the world, then_ **_yes_** _.”_

“You should get changed,” he manages, clearing this throat. “They want us out there soon.”

Sherlock nods but makes no move to get started. John figures it’s because he’s still in the room, so he gathers his mobile and his coffee and heads for door.

“Don’t go,” Sherlock blurts and John freezes, hand on the knob. “I’d just - prefer to walk out with you, together, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Sure,” John says, forcibly keeping his tone light. “Whatever you want.” He retreats back to the small sofa in the corner and takes a seat, shivering as the action kicks up a breeze beneath his dressing gown. He unlocks his mobile and scrolls through his emails, but finding nothing of import other than the latest Christmas deals, he switches over to the news and bemoans the state of the world.

He absolutely, positively does not let his eyes wander.

Which is why he definitely doesn’t see Sherlock pull his jumper over his head, or undo the belt at his all-too-skinny waist. He doesn’t see him toss a glance over his shoulder to make sure John isn’t looking before toeing off his boots and letting his trousers fall to his ankles, leaving him in nothing but black cotton briefs. And he _certainly_ doesn’t see Sherlock pick up his ‘pouch’ and stare at it with dismayed wonder, turning it this way and that, trying to figure out which way it actually goes on.

Finally, making a noise of exasperation, he groans, “John, what the hell?”

And John finally snorts, unable to hold back the building laughter any longer.

“This isn’t funny,” Sherlock retorts, but a smile is pulling at his lips.

“Oh come on. This is the most ridiculous thing either of us has ever done,” John replies.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John drops his phone on the couch and moves to stand in front of the younger man, tears of laughter still pooling in his eyes. “That wasn’t just me. Now,” he says, taking the pouch from Sherlock and holding it up. “We’re lucky because we actually get straps. They’re not filming us, they just need lighting looks. So your left leg goes through this bit, your right through this, and this,” he gestures towards the majority of the fabric, “goes you know where. Just think of it as a very revealing… mankini.”

“That’s a thing?”

“Apparently.”

“First-hand experience?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shame,” Sherlock hums and the sound goes straight to John’s cock.

_Not now._

“Okay then,” Sherlock breathes, the previous moment’s confidence waning.

John turns to give him his privacy, but listens as the last of the fabric hits the floor. Sherlock Holmes is naked a mere meter away. John closes his eyes and clenches his fists, attempting to keep his breathing under control.

“Okay, you can turn back,” Sherlock says and John expects to find him with his dressing gown done up, but _no,_ Sherlock bloody Holmes is standing there in all his glory with nothing but a spare bit of fabric covering something John is ashamed to admit he’s fantasized about more than is healthy in the last week.

“Um…” he trails off, trying to tear his eyes away, but he doesn’t accomplish it nearly fast enough.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock replies, reaching out and taking his hand. “I want you to look.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, what are you doing to me?” he groans, eyes still firmly on the ground.

“I don’t - I don’t want the first time we see each other to be out there in front of all of those people. So, this is just for us. Would you - would you undo your robe? Please?”

John finally glances up, thankful his eyes actually make it to Sherlock’s face, and the boy looks so earnest he can’t help but comply.

“Yeah, alright.” With a sigh, he lets go of Sherlock’s hand and undoes the knot at his waist, letting the terrycloth fall away, revealing his scarred body. He can almost feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze rake over him. It’s like a microscope covering every pore, every hair, every freckle. It warms him like a heating lamp.

“You’re beautiful.”

“And you’re delusional,” he says before there’s a knock at the door.

“Gents, we’re ready for you,” Tony calls.

“Yep, coming,” John replies, tying up his gown and moving towards the door but he doesn’t dare open it until he looks back and makes sure Sherlock is decent. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replies with a touch of that haughtiness back in place.

John’s hand slides from the knob. “Don’t do that. Not with me.”

The cool veneer fades away and Sherlock nods, looking infinitely younger than he did a moment ago. “I’m okay.”

John smiles. “Good.” With a deep inhale, he opens the door and steps out into the quiet hallway. Tony is waiting for them at the end and gives them both a wave.

“Hey, guys,” he says as they get closer. “I know this can be awkward so we’re going to make this as short and sweet as we can. We’ll let the professionals suffer through it a bit, eh?”

“Yeah,” John chuckles. He doesn’t really find it to be a hardship at all, but Sherlock feels differently. And frankly, the possessive side of John (one which he knows he has _no right_ to have) doesn’t want to share.

They make their way over to the bed and John makes sure he’s the first to strip his dressing gown off. Without glancing around, he climbs onto the bed and waits for Tony to instruct him. He’s read the script, though. He knows how this scene plays.

“Right, John, just up against the headboard. Feel free to move any pillows to make yourself more comfortable. We want you pretty upright for this. And, Sherlock, you’ll be - ” But Tony doesn’t need to finish because Sherlock has just climbed on the bed, thrown a leg over John’s hips, and settled down in his lap. “Right, just like that. Perfect.”

It takes John a solid ten seconds to realize he hasn’t drawn breath. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so they just lay rather limply at his sides and he bites his tongue as Sherlock squirms to make himself comfortable.

“Oh my god, you must stop moving,” he finally begs, leaning forward and letting his forehead rest against Sherlock’s sternum.

“Sorry,” he replies rather sheepishly. John isn’t hard yet, but it’s a near thing.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, finally running his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock moans quietly in his ear and presses further against his chest.

“John.”

“Guys, just told still for a second so we can get a light reading,” Tony calls from behind the monitor, which is thankfully several meters away.

“Easier fucking said than done,” John grits, closing his eyes and blowing out a breath, ruffling a curl on Sherlock’s forehead.

“You’re doing valiantly, John,” Sherlock teases and John narrows his eyes.

“Really? You want to sass me now?”

Sherlock grins, making his eyes go delightfully squinty. “Maybe.”

“Great,” Tony calls. “Sherlock, you can start the move.”

Sherlock gives John a panicked look because this is really the first time he’s taken the lead in these proceedings, but John’s hands are steady on his hips, gently guiding him into a rolling wave.

“Nice and easy, babe,” John whispers, the endearment rolling easily off his tongue. He can’t be bothered to feel self-conscious about it when Sherlock himself doesn’t even seem to have noticed. He’s too busy concentrating on an area just to the right of John’s scar, but hey, if that’s what keeps him under control, then John won’t be the one to make him falter. “There you go,” John urges. “Keep it slow.”

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes. His cheeks are pink but John has a feeling it’s out of embarrassment rather than arousal.

“Just us here,” he breathes. “No one else.”

Sherlock nods again, releasing his hands from the death grip they have on John’s trapezius muscles. His eyes remain closed though so John’s watches the shadows his lashes cast on his cheeks.

What on earth does a gorgeous creature like this want with a broken down guy like him?

His palms skate over the muscles in Sherlock’s thighs, tickling the sparse hair there as they flex beneath the skin. He’s got a runner’s body - or a dancer’s - and John’s heart constricts yet again that he’s ruining it with cocaine. His hands drift to Sherlock’s elbow, thumb gently caressing the scars there as if he could heal them with his touch alone.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?”

He glances up and realizes that not only are Sherlock’s eyes open, but now they’re trained on his own. “We had dinner the other night.”

“People need to eat daily, don’t they?” He frowns, expression coming dangerously close to a pout, and John can’t help but find it endearing.

“Are you asking me out? While naked in my lap?”

“No, nevermind.”

“Sherlock, no, hey. I’d love to,” he insists. “Yeah? I’d love to. Just - you have to admit the circumstances are amusing.” To prove his point, he taps Sherlock’s flank because the boy had stopped moving, causing him to giggle.

“All right,” he says. “Come over to mine?”

John nods and bites his lip as Sherlock lands a particularly well-placed thrust. “Love to.” His voice comes out rough and Sherlock’s eyes darken, the levity of previous moment having flown right out the window.

“John,” he breathes, rolling his hips again as John’s eyelids flutter.

“Don’t get excited on me now. As amazing as that would be, we don’t have jeans to cover the evidence this time.”

“Amazing?”

John flushes and bites his lip against a moan. “Yeah, maybe.”

Sherlock fingers wind their way into his hair, pressing against his scalp, and John has to lean forward and gently bite at Sherlock’s shoulder to muffle a groan.

“God, babe, you’re killin’ me.”

“Babe?”

“Yeah,” John grunts. “Problem?”

Sherlock grins, giving John an _extra_ exquisite roll.

“Hell, no.”

xxxxxx

When John had asked Sherlock where and when he should meet him for this mysterious dinner, the mad genius just told him they’d head straight there from the studio, which is why John made sure to pack deodorant, a nice shirt, and a bit of cologne in his bag.

He tells himself he’s not nervous, but he is. They’ve done this whole thing backwards, starting with frotting and ending with flan (or whatever might be on the menu for this evening). John usually has the opportunity to get to know a person before they’re taking off their clothes (usually, but not always. His uni days are behind him, but not that far). But Sherlock seems to be the exception to every rule he has so why shouldn’t dating him be any different? (If that’s even what they’re doing. He honestly has no idea. _Stop it, Watson._ )

When he steps outside into the crisp night air, he stands still for a moment, breathing in the city before opening his eyes and watching a black car idle down the block. He frowns at it for a moment, assuming it must belong to a businessman in one of the adjacent buildings but Sherlock brushes by him a moment later and heads straight for it.

“Come on, then.”

“What are you doing?” John asks rather stupidly.

“... Getting in the car?”

“But why?”

“Because… it’s our ride,” he says as he opens the door. “John, did you hit your head? I know we got a bit rough on the kitchen counter, but I honestly didn’t think you banged anything that badly.”

“No, no,” John blushes, knowing full well the car is not driving itself. “I’m fine. It’s all… all fine.”

He hurries in after the tall git, sliding across the leather seat next to him. There is a driver, but thankfully, the divider is up between the front and the back.

“Are you, uh, rich?” he asks after a moment.

“Yep,” Sherlock replies, popping his ‘p’ as he types something out on his phone. “Chinese okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Chinese is great.”

“Wonderful. I ordered one of everything.”

“Ordered one of - Sherlock, where are we going?”

“I told you,” he sighs. “Home.”

“Right,” John replies, feeling a bit like Alice as she falls through the looking glass. But then he feels Sherlock’s pinky brush his own where it rests on the seat in between them and he’s back to rights once more. Feeling emboldened, he reaches over and clasps their hands together, settling his fingers in between each of Sherlock’s. In the reflection of the window, he can see Sherlock’s grin in the glow of his phone. John buries his nose in the collar of his coat just to hide his own.

Thirty minutes later finds them turning into a tree-lined drive just on the outskirts of the city, tiny shrubs dotting the lawn covered in fairy lights. John’s jaw drops.

“This is your _house_?” he blurts.

“Technically it belongs to my parents,” Sherlock replies, sounding bored. “But they’re skiing in Austria. They’ll be back the week before Christmas.”

John gives a low whistle as the car comes to a stop, finally letting go of Sherlock’s hand so they can exit. He offers the driver a wave of thanks as he passes by the front before following Sherlock inside the insanely large and sturdy door that seems to be right out of Lord of the Rings.

Inside, it looks like Father Christmas settled right in.

“They go all out, don’t they,” John observes. “I thought you said you don’t do Christmas.”

“I said _I_ don’t do Christmas. Mummy and Daddy, unfortunately, do.”

“No shit,” John murmurs has he glances around again, taking in the garlands hanging from the bannisters and the large tree in the foyer decorated with white lights and tasteful silver ornaments. “So it’s just you and them?”

Sherlock hums. “Mycroft has his own place near Whitehall.” He takes their coats and tosses them on a nearby antique chair.

“It’s… actually really nice,” John says, sighing in contentment as he bends down to observe a tiny Christmas village set up on a side table complete with fake snow. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock visibly relax. He may shrug off his upbringing, but John understands he’s being offered a rare glimpse into the private life of Sherlock Holmes. A chance that is not offered lightly. “Fantastic,” he breathes, straightening once more and watching Sherlock in the glow of the lights.

A knock sounds at the door a moment later, and Sherlock says, “Ah, good,” as he goes to answer it, revealing the delivery man with their Chinese. He collects it and pays, shutting the door once more and heading back to John, handing him one of the bags.

“Figured you guys would have a butler or something,” John jokes as follows the other boy.

“There’s a housekeeper and a cook, but they usually make themselves scarce when it’s just me haunting the place.”

John nudges him. “Could it be that Master Sherlock is a bit of a handful?”

The younger man tosses a look over his shoulder that is both exasperated and yet a bit naughty. “You think entirely too highly of me, John.”

“Not possible,” he murmurs, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him.

They walk down the hallway past a library that looks like it’s floor to ceiling books, a study which looks like it may belong to his mother going by the frankly alarming amount flowers on the desk, and a toilet which can only be pure porcelain, before finally ending up in a living room (perhaps the more casual of many) that has a huge leather sofa and an absolutely massive fireplace, which already has wood crackling in its hearth. Sherlock takes a blanket off the back of a nearby chair and unfolds it, letting it flutter to the floor as he begins to set up the Chinese for their picnic feast.

It seems to take him a moment to realize John is still standing halfway across the room and he looks up, expression suddenly uncertain. “Is this - is this okay?”

It takes all of John’s strength not to stride over and snog him senseless. “Sherlock, it’s brilliant.” He joins him on the floor then, helping him parse out pork fried rice, egg rolls, and General Tso’s chicken. “You really did get one of everything,” he says over a container of steamed dumplings.

Sherlock hums. “Easier that way.”

John toes off his shoes and sits cross-legged on the blanket, letting the warmth from the fire glide over his body as he observes the room. The room, which must be Sherlock’s favorite, for why else would the boy have brought him here? He glances around, noticing the glowing candlesticks in each window and the nutcracker army set up on another side table. The soldiers look a little worse for wear and when John points this out, Sherlock blushes.

“I used to stage battles. Epic Revolutionary War things.” He shrugs. “They had red and blue coats, so why not? I may or may not have used the chestnuts as cannonballs, and well, Mummy keeps them in there because they’ve been chipped so many times.”

“That’s adorable,” John gushes and Sherlock rolls his eyes, but smiles.

“Is not.”

On a desk overlooking one of the many lawns, there’s a pile of chemistry books. “You have one year left?” John asks, nodding at them.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I graduate at the end of next term.”

“A year early?”

“Yes,” he says as if it’s the most disdainful thing in the world. “It makes Mummy and Daddy ever so _proud_.”

John raises his eyebrows. He wouldn’t have taken Sherlock for the _Mummy and Daddy_ type.

“Chemistry is useful,” he supplies, not sure what else to say, and Sherlock sighs.

“If you’re referring to mixing cocaine, then yes.”

John chokes on his dumpling. “That actually wasn’t what I was referring to, but… okay.”

This is dangerous territory they’re getting into and John would really prefer not to ruin an otherwise wonderful evening.

“I made a promise, John,” Sherlock murmurs. “I’m not usually good at keeping them, but… I’m trying. For you, I am.”

Something must have exploded in John’s chest because that’s the only way to describe what he’s feeling right now: warm and tingly and so happy he could burst. Bold, too, as he places his hand on top of Sherlock’s on the blanket, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Thank you.” They stare at each other for a moment, Sherlock’s fingers cold in John’s warm palm, before John finally chuckles, breaking the tension. “When the hell do you go to classes, though?”

Sherlock laughs and uses his free hand to spear a piece of beef with his chopsticks. “Wednesday and Thursday evenings. I’ve covered most of my credits already, so I just have two.”

“Ah, I see.” Then something registers. “Oh, that’s why you left so quickly last week.”

“You noticed?” he teases, raising an eyebrow and John blushes.

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.” Sherlock’s phone pings then and he glances at it, frowning, before letting go of John’s hand to swipe it open. “Call sheet for tomorrow.” His eyes scan the screen. “Against the wall?” he blurts and John chokes on his broccoli this time. Sherlock looks up with disbelieving eyes. “People actually do that?”

John barks out a laugh and thumps his chest to keep from swallowing his food whole. “Sometimes.”

“Have you?”

“Bit personal, that.”

Sherlock glares. “I think we’ve gone beyond the personal, don’t you think?”

“Once or twice,” John says, putting down his chopsticks. He has a feeling this is going to be a lengthier conversation than he would like.

“But they were girls,” Sherlock says.

“Sorry?”

“You had sex against the wall with girls, I’m right to assume? What am I saying? Of course I’m right - ”

“Oi!”

“Can you even hold me up? Pre-injury maybe, but now?”

“Sherlock…” John pinches the bridge of his nose, looking longingly at his half-eaten egg roll. “Yes, I can hold you.”

“Long enough to get a light reading?”

“Presumably I’d be able to hold you long enough to fuck you, so yes, long enough to get a light reading,” he snaps, before coming back to himself. “Sorry, that was a dick thing to say.” He glances up and sees that Sherlock’s eyes have darkened and not out of anger. _Oh christ, that is not good._ “Sherlock…?”

“Shall we test the theory?” he asks, unwinding those long legs to stand.

“Sherlock.”

“It’s what any good scientist would do. Come on, John,” he says, holding out his hand. “For science.”

John glances between the outstretched palm and those glittering blue eyes, wondering which deity he either pissed off or pleased to bring this colorful madman into his boring, grey life. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet here you are.” He wiggles his fingers. “Chop, chop.”

With a sigh, John stands and follows Sherlock over to the only expanse of wall not covered with artwork or Christmas decorations.

“So how does this - ?” But before Sherlock can even get his bearings, John is bending down and scooping his hands under those taut thighs, hoisting him up, and wrapping those illegal legs around his waist, pressing him up against the wall. “ _Oh,_ ” he blurts, arms coming around John’s shoulders and holding on tight.

“See? I can hold you,” he murmurs.

“But for how long?” the younger man replies, breath ghosting across John’s face. “Long enough for Tony to pretend he’s a director?”

“Don’t be a twat.”

“It’s a genuine concern!” he cries, fingers digging into the base of John’s neck. “I don’t want you dropping me on my arse.”

“From what I’ve seen of your arse, it can handle it.”

Sherlock raises and saucy eyebrow. “Staring, Captain Watson?”

“Possibly.” John grunts. “How long do you want me to keep you up like this?”

“Long enough to get a light reading!” Sherlock laughs, the sound rumbling against John’s chest. “Say, twenty minutes?”

John huffs and rolls his eyes. If Sherlock is going to go through with this insane exercise when they could be doing more enjoyable things, then he’s going to torture him with small talk. “So what have you asked Father Christmas for this year?”

Sherlock giggles and shakes his head against the wall. “Nothing. I’ve been very naughty.”

“Don’t I know it,” John mutters, trying to ignore the way his groin presses directly into the warm crease of Sherlock’s.

“John?”

“Yeah, babe?”

Sherlock blushes at the endearment again and John resolves to use it as often as possible, just to make that particular color appear again. “You like to call me that.”

“I do,” John replies honestly. “And I think you like to hear it.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock replies with a coy smile, shifting and causing John to hold him tighter. “I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says seriously. “I thought I’d hate this job when I took it, but it’s actually been… nice.”

“It has,” John breathes, tracing the backs of Sherlock’s thighs with his fingers.

Sherlock ducks his head and tightens his arms around John’s neck, bringing their foreheads together as he breathes through his open mouth. “John?”

“Yeah?” he whispers, licking his lips.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it twenty minutes.”

“I don’t think we are either.” And he knows it has nothing to do with his upper body strength. “I would like to kiss you. If you’re amenable. Properly, this time.”

“But the mistletoe’s over there.”

John barely gets out, “I don’t care,” before he’s leaning in and gently brushing their mouths together, sucking that plush lower lip in between his own as he lets Sherlock’s legs back down to the floor so he can cup that sharp jaw in his hand. “God, Sherlock,” he whispers, diving in again to learn the taste that’s already becoming far too addictive.

“John,” he moans, fingers tangling in the back of John’s shirt.

“Yeah.” John presses him into the wall and tucks the hand that isn’t cupping Sherlock’s cheek into the small of his back. He can already feel Sherlock’s desire pressing into his hip and he groans and rolls his own, swiping his tongue across the other boy’s lip and causing his knees to buckle. “Easy, easy. I’ve got you,” John murmurs, holding him tighter around the waist as he pulls away and gets a good look at him.

Sherlock’s pupils are blown wide, his lips are swollen, and his hair is wild. He looks downright delectable. “John,” he swallows, “I want you to come upstairs with me.”

“Sherlock… God, I would love nothing more than that, but - ”

“Don’t say it’s fast,” the younger man pleads. “Please don’t.”

“Babe, we met two weeks ago.”

“And you’re calling me pet names and tracing your fingers on my lower back under my shirt.”

John freezes. He hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it.

“Not that I want you to stop,” Sherlock whispers, stepping into his space once more and running his nose along John’s stubbled jaw. “Please come upstairs with me,” he breathes before catching John’s mouth in a frankly filthy kiss that has the older man groaning into his mouth.

“God, I want you,” he manages when he draws in a breath.

“Then take me,” Sherlock simply replies, grabbing his hand and placing it over his chest. John can feel the thump of his traitorous heart under his palm.

“There are steps, you know,” he says as he swallows, his body screaming _What are you doing?_ as his mind demands, _Don’t you dare not do this right_. “We don’t have to go all the - "

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock clips fondly. “You’re very noble. But tonight, I don’t need you to be.” His fingers trace the shell of John’s left ear as his right thumb brushes over his eyebrow. And he’s looking at John with such trust that John has to swallow around the rather large lump that’s suddenly appeared in his throat.

“There you are,” he murmurs.

Sherlock frowns. “What?”

“You,” John replies, kissing him on the nose. “The real you.”

Sherlock offers a small smile. “Not nearly as interesting.”

“I beg to differ.” Then he steps away and holds out his hand, thankful it doesn’t shake. “Upstairs?”

Sherlock visibly swallows and nods, taking his hand and leading the way. John assumes that the ghostlike housekeeper will turn out the lights and take care of the mess they left (which he feels incredibly guilty about) but then Sherlock turns on the steps, towering over John from one above, and says four words that absolutely floor him:

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He swallows hard and grabs hold of the front of Sherlock’s jumper, pulling him down into a soft, chaste kiss, infusing it with everything he’s already feeling but probably shouldn’t be yet. Because John Watson is absolutely _gone_ on Sherlock Holmes. And that realization absolutely terrifies him.

He pulls away to find Sherlock smiling down on him, before he softly tugs on his hand once more and continues leading them down the dark hallway towards a door at the end.

Sherlock’s bedroom is all oak furniture and dark wallpaper, perfect for brooding or hiding all manner of misdeeds ( _No, don’t. Don’t think about that here. Not now_ ). John glances around, taking in the chemistry equipment in the corner and the ship in the bottle on the table, before his eyes fall on the large bed with its plush pillows and inviting duvet. He swallows.

“You’re nervous,” Sherlock points out and John smiles.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while for me too.”

Sherlock reaches out, takes hold of both of John’s hands and walks backward until his knees hit the bed. Letting go of John, he climbs up and toes his shoes off, hooking his foot around John’s calf and pulling him closer so he can bury his face in the front of John’s shirt.

John groans and threads his fingers through those curls, before getting a finger under Sherlock’s chin and tilting his face up so he can lean down and suck his bottom lip into his mouth.

“John,” he whines, scooting backward without breaking the kiss and pulling John with him.

Thankful he left his shoes down in the living room, John crawls on top of the of the gorgeous creature beneath him, bracketing his hands on either side of his head and gently slotting himself into the space Sherlock’s spread legs have provided.

“God,’ Sherlock chokes when John rests his weight fully on top of him.

“Not quite,” he quips, which has Sherlock tugging on his short hair in retaliation. His eyelids flutter and he exhales on a grunt, deciding that he definitely needs to add that one to the long list of things Sherlock does that turn him on.

He leans down to suck the boy’s earlobe into his mouth and rolls his hips. Sherlock’s knees drop open wider and he keens toward the ceiling.

“You’re so sensitive,” John breathes. Sherlock can’t even form words to reply. He continues grinding, telling himself he’s going to take this slow, but Sherlock keeps matching him thrust for thrust and ‘slow’ is rapidly making itself not an option.

“John, wait, stop,” Sherlock begs all of a sudden and John let’s go so quickly, he practically throws himself to the foot of the bed. “No, sorry, I just, I was just about to…” he gestures to his distended trousers and John watches the way he closes his eyes and fists his fingers in the sheets with a whine.

“You’re close.”

“Too close,” he groans.

“Well maybe we should just, you know, take the edge off.”

“But… I thought you wanted this. Wanted me,” Sherlock says and it damn near breaks John’s heart.

“I do, babe. Trust me, I do. But you’re young and you’ve never done this before. I could bring you off right now and you’d be ready to go again within ten minutes.”

Sherlock lets out a noise that, for a moment, has John thinking he’s just come from his words alone, but then he pounces on him with such force, both of them go tumbling to the floor.

“Do it,” he breathes, crushing their lips together, but John is now too busy laughing to properly kiss him back.

“Hang on, hang on, back on the bed please. I may be young too, but I have been shot recently. Shagging on a hardwood floor would not do wonders for my broken body.”

Sherlock pulls away and stares at him with a look of such fierce determination, it halts the laughter on John’s tongue. “You are not broken.”

“Okay,” John nods after a moment, cupping the boy’s cheek. “Okay, love.”

Things calm after that. John stands and helps Sherlock up too, stepping into his space and gently tugging the jumper over his head. He smiles as he smooths down those riotous curls, taking in the pale torso that looks like it was carved from marble by Michelangelo himself.

“You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it.”

Sherlock grins. “My turn.” He hurriedly unbuttons the front of John’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders before reaching for his vest. John immediately stiffens out of habit, but Sherlock merely cocks his head, gently shaking it. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he murmurs.

In lieu of a reply, John raises his arms, allowing Sherlock to pull the cotton over his head. Those nimble fingers next get to work on his belt, but it takes a few tries because they’re shaking so badly. John desperately want to cup the bulge at the front of Sherlock’s trousers, but he has a sneaking suspicion the boy does not want to come in his pants again. Instead, he deftly flicks the button open and undoes the flies, careful not to press too hard as he pushes them down and off Sherlock’s skinny hips. He does a little shimmy, getting his own trousers to drop to the floor, which leaves both of them in their pants, staring at one another as if seeing for the first time.

“You okay?” John asks, because that seems to be his go-to question and Sherlock licks his lips and nods, eyes raking their full over John’s body.

John bends down and tugs his socks off before reaching over and doing the same for Sherlock. His eyes drift to the tented pants directly in front of him and he glances up and raises his eyebrows, the silent _Yes?_ not needing to be voiced. Sherlock nods and John hooks his cold fingers in the elastic band, pulling them down those mile-long legs and letting Sherlock’s cock spring up and slap against his stomach, smearing precome on the taut skin there.

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” John murmurs, rubbing tiny circles on Sherlock’s hip, having no shame about staring.

“Now you,” the younger man manages and John stands, shucking his pants in one go, and Sherlock moans at the sight. “Oh God, you’re…” he reaches out, but immediately withdraws.

John chuckles. “You can touch.”

Those long fingers wrap around him and pump him once, and John moans loudly, letting it echo around the room. Sherlock does it again and John has to grip his forearm before he shoots off all over his hand.

“C’mere,” he growls, pulling Sherlock flush against him, warm skin on warm skin, and backing him to the bed once more. John breaks the embrace and crawls up to the headboard, arranging the pillows before sitting up against them. He spreads his legs rather obscenely and pats the space between them. “Like this?”

Sherlock nods vigorously and quickly crawls to sit in front of him. John tugs him back until they’re pressed back to front, and Sherlock gasps and John groans as his cock slots perfectly in between Sherlock’s cheeks. He has to sink his teeth into his lip just to keep from grabbing Sherlock’s hips and thrusting until he comes. This isn’t about him at the moment.

John noses along behind Sherlock’s ear and the other boy leans his head back on John’s shoulder so he can capture his lips. “Touch me, John.”

“With pleasure,” he growls, trailing his right hand down Sherlock’s sternum and brushing the thatch of hair at the base of his cock as his left hand rubs a small circle on his nipple. He has to bite back a guttural groan the first time he takes hold of Sherlock’s cock, as if his is the one being stroked. Sherlock keens towards the ceiling once more and grips John’s thighs on either side of him. “That good?”

“You know it is,” Sherlock pants. “Don’t tease.”

John chuckles, shaking Sherlock in front of him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He pumps him up and down, keeping his hand tight but his strokes slow.

Sherlock’s hips start hitching up to meet him, thrusting against his cock in a way that’s entirely too delicious. Sherlock’s head begins thrashing back and forth as impatient noises are punched out of his chest with every thrust. John leaves his nipples alone and just settles for holding him tight in a half-hug as he wrings pleasure from his squirming body.

“Oh God - It’s too much...” he suddenly pants and John immediately stops stroking. “No, don’t. Keep going. I just - I’m...”

“Overwhelmed?”

Sherlock nods against his shoulder so John uses his free hand to gently turn his head so it’s tucked into his neck.

“Close your eyes. Focus on the feel of my hand right here,” he says, tapping Sherlock’s chest over his beating heart before leaving it there, palm steady and secure, holding them together.

Sherlock’s breath on the side of his neck is warm and damp. “John,” he whispers.

“That’s it, baby,” he replies, slowly starting to stroke Sherlock once more and drawing a whine out of him. “Just focus on me.”

Sherlock presses his face further into his neck and John delights in the flush that’s spreading down the boy’s pale chest. The groans ripping themselves out of Sherlock’s chest reverberate beneath John’s palm

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” he repeats, a sentiment he’ll share over and over until Sherlock actually believes it. He bends his knees, giving the boy a better grip on his thighs as he strokes him faster.

“John, oh God, John - I’m gonna - ”

“It’s okay,” he urges. “Come on.”

“John - John, _fuck_!” Sherlock shouts, throwing his head back and snapping his hips forward as John pumps his through his orgasm, warm come dripping all over his hand.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Goddamn gorgeous.”

Sherlock continues to shake, hips juddering as John milks the last of his orgasm from him before falling back, heaving against John’s chest.

“Yeah, you needed that, didn’t you,” John says, pressing kisses to his ear, his temple, his cheek, to any place he can reach.

“Holy fuck,” Sherlock blurts in between panting breaths. “What about you?” he eventually slurs, nudging back against John’s steadily leaking erection and pulling a groan from him.

“Give it a few minutes,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I can wait.”

“That was…” but Sherlock trails off, staring at some unseen thing on the other side of the room.

“You with me, babe?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer so John pinches his side, drawing a yelp from him. “Did I break your brain?”

The boy leans back and smiles drunkenly, despite the fact that they’ve had no alcohol. “I think so.” Then he grins. “How do you want to do this next part?”

John looks pointedly at Sherlock’s spent cock, as he rubs his clean hand up and down his stomach. “Don’t think we’re quite there, yet.”

Sherlock turns in his arms and rearranges John’s legs before straddling him in a perfection imitation of what they did on the film set the previous day. “Doesn’t mean we can’t plan.”

“Okay,” John says, voice strangled as Sherlock wiggles in his lap. “First item on the plan: condoms.”

“No,” Sherlock replies.

John frowns. “No, you don’t have them?”

“No, I don’t want to use them. I said I was clean.”

“I know, but - ”

“Are you not?”

“I am, but safe sex and all,” he says, heaving Sherlock off his lap with a groan as he digs around their discarded clothes for his trousers, not caring a whit that he’s still very naked and still very erect.

“John,” he nearly whines.

“Sherlock,” he says firmly, but fondly. “You won’t win this one.” Finding his trousers, he pulls his wallet out and takes out the condom that’s been tucked in between his bills for far longer than he’d care to admit.

“How predictable,” the younger man drawls.

“Hush you. Do you want me to bugger your brains out or not?”

“Oh God, yes please,” he says, spreading his legs and taking John’s spot against the mountain of pillows.

“That,” John blurts, pointing at him and practically salivating. Sherlock frowns.

“That what?”

John swallows and licks his lips, eyes following the sinewy lines of Sherlock’s limbs. “That’s how I want to do it. Just like that,” he murmurs, crawling back over the bed to his partner. “I want to see you,” he whispers, brushing hair away from Sherlock’s forehead. “Although, it might be more comfortable for you on your hands and knees - ”

“No,” Sherlock states softly, but firmly. “I want to see you too.”

“Okay,” John whispers, nodding. “Okay.” He glances down and finds that Sherlock is already starting to fill out again. Giving him an impish grin, he leans in for a kiss and whispers, “Told you,” before reaching down and stroking Sherlock back to full hardness. “Since you don’t have condoms, I’m guessing you don’t have lube either.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes which would have made much more of an impact if he hadn’t whimpered halfway through. “I’m not a complete neophyte. I do wank, you know.”

“Mmmmm, do you?” he teases. “Might need to hear more about that. In detail.”

In lieu of a snarky response, Sherlock merely reaches over to the bedside table, opens the drawer, and grabs the bottle, pressing it into John’s waiting hand. John pour a bit on his fingers and kneels between Sherlock’s legs, pressing a kiss to the top of his knee.

“Yeah?”

Sherlock nods, looking at him with all the trust in the world. It’s beyond intimidating. “Yeah.”

John reaches between his legs, running his thumb over the sensitive and fragile skin of his sac before circling his finger around the furled skin of his hole. Sherlock tenses, so John presses gently on his perineum, causing Sherlock to throw his head back and grip the headboard with his hand as he moans. John uses the distraction to slip the tip of his finger past the tight ring of muscle.

It’s slow-going, stretching Sherlock wide enough to take him, but Sherlock seems to be enjoying it more than John is and John is enjoying it a _lot._ So much so that he almost can’t speak, and not out of desire. The boy before him is so beautiful, so wonderful, so goddamn smart and hilarious when he wants to be that it physically pains John to look at him. He wants to light a fire in the hearth, lock the door, and hide under the covers until the world is a more forgiving place. Until Sherlock stops feeling like he has nothing but drugs to run to when the thoughts in his head and feelings in his heart get to be too much.

“Am I ready?” he whines, shaking John from his thoughts and John watches his three fingers pump gently in and out of Sherlock’s body.

“Yeah, baby, I think you are.” He pulls his hand away and tries to open the condom, but his fingers are shaking and slippery to boot, so Sherlock leans up and takes the packet from him with fingers that shake just as badly.

He gets it open and gently takes John in hand. He’s been so hard for so long that he hisses at the contact, which morphs into a groan when Sherlock gives him a stroke before rolling the condom on. John pours lube on himself and a bit more around Sherlock’s entrance for good measure before leaning forward and helping Sherlock wrap his legs around his waist.

Positioning his cock right at Sherlock’s loosened hole, he reaches up and threads their fingers together, pressing Sherlock’s hand into the pillow as he touches their foreheads together. “Okay?”

Sherlock swallows. “Okay.”

John presses in and the world goes white.

He didn’t think it was possible to feel so much at one time that you end up feeling nothing at all. Jesus, maybe this is what Sherlock talks about when he says he needs the drugs to quiet his mind. The first thing he registers is the grip of Sherlock’s fingers on his, tips digging into the back of his hand so hard, he wouldn’t be surprised if the boy’s fingerprints were etched on his skin.

“You good?” he gasps, because if Sherlock is holding on that tight, he must be in pain.

“Good,” he grits out. “Ungh, so good.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

The next thing he registers is the _tight heat_ surrounding him and he purposefully has to think about war stories to keep his hips from pumping uncontrollably. He inches in a bit more until his bollocks are flush with Sherlock’s arse.

“This is… this is…” but Sherlock never gets out what exactly it is. John concurs.

“Uh huh.”

“Can you - you can move.”

“Okay, babe,” John whispers, leaning his weight on his right elbow so he can leave his left hand clasped in Sherlock’s. He pulls out a bit and pushes back in, just testing, but Sherlock jackknifes like he’s taken a punch to the solar plexus.

“ _God_ , there. There, whatever that is there.”

John chuckles and does it again as Sherlock keens toward the ceiling.

“I hope your housekeeper and cook are deaf.”

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock says instead.

“I won’t,” John assures. “I promise I won’t.” He tries to keep the pace slow, but they’re so keyed up that he knows it won’t last for long. It’s been ages since he felt this. This closeness to another human being and not just physically. John pulls away far enough to look into Sherlock’s eyes and the breath is knocked from his lungs by what he finds there.

“I…” Sherlock begins, staring up at him with an expression that’s flayed open. Completely naked. “I…”

And the irrational part of John’s brain wants to think that what Sherlock is going to say is _I love you_ because, God, John’s had to bite it back so many times already this evening, but no. Sherlock wouldn’t say that. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps not ever.

When it becomes clear Sherlock isn’t going to finish whatever it was he had begun, John hitches his legs up higher, groans into his shoulder, and snaps his hips faster. “Come on, love. I’m close. I’m so close. Come with me.”

“I’m with you,” he moans.

“Yeah?”

“ _Yes, John_ ,” Sherlock sobs as he falls apart immediately, cock pumping between them and pulling a groan out of John that seems to come from the very depths of his soul.

John manages to hold out long enough to get his arms under the boy’s back solely so he can gather him to his chest and hold him tight as he pumps burst after burst into the condom inside him. He feels the sticky warmth between them, stripes of semen still coating their chests as Sherlock shakes apart in his arms. John can’t even keep track of the noises they’re making as he presses parted lips to any bit of Sherlock he can reach.

“You’re perfect, you’re so perfect,” he realizes he’s murmuring as Sherlock continues to cry tears that stain his skin.

“Not perfect,” Sherlock hiccups, “Nowhere near perfect.”

“Shhhh,” John buries his face in the cocoon of Sherlock’s neck, whispering nonsense that the boy will never hear and would never listen to anyway: promises of hope, assurances of safety, commitments to health, vows to stay. When he stops shaking, he pulls back and runs his thumb over Sherlock’s blotchy cheek, catching stray tears and kissing them clean.

“John…” he chokes.

“I know,” he whispers. “It was a lot.”

Sherlock nods.

“Not too much, though, right?”

Sherlock swallows, but shakes his head. “No,” he breathes. “I don’t think so.”

John nods and gently pulls out, holding the base of the condom and wincing at the oversensitivity. He presses another kiss to Sherlock’s bent knee and goes to move off the bed to bin the condom when Sherlock’s hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist.

“Whoa, hey. I’m just going to toss this and get a cloth to clean us up, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

“It’s quiet when you’re here,” he murmurs.  

“Quiet?”

“In my head.”

“Then I won’t be gone long.” He presses a kiss to said head and pads to the en suite, wetting a warm flannel and coming back to gently, carefully wipe Sherlock down. The boy seeks out his touch like a cat wanting a cuddle. Pressing another kiss to those swollen lips, he tosses the cloth back in the sink and lights the fire on the other side of the room (because every room in this bloody house seems to have a fireplace) before returning to the bed and gathering Sherlock back into his arms.

“Are you okay?” he asks one final time.

“Yes, John. I’m okay,” he replies, pressing his face into John’s chest and closing his eyes, brow finally free of the crease of worry.

xxxxxx

The fire has long gone out by the time John wakes in the middle of the night in an empty bed, sheets kicked down to the bottom but duvet pulled up tight about his ears to ward off the chill of the old, drafty manor. He reaches over, but the other side is cool to the touch.

“Sherlock?” He lifts his head, but the room is definitely empty. Tossing the covers back and pulling on his pants, he grabs the decorative Christmas blanket hanging over the back of a rocking chair in the corner (not Sherlock’s doing) and wraps it around his body in lieu of a dressing gown.

The en suite is empty as are all of the rooms in their wing of the house (because, yes, there are separate _wings_ ), so he heads downstairs in the dark, pulling the blanket tighter around his body and padding towards the living room. Finding that empty as well, he heads down another hallway in what he hopes is the direction of the kitchen, but he honestly wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to leave him in the lurch in his own goddamn home.

Pushing a swinging door open, he finally finds his quarry seated on a stool at the kitchen island. The stone floor is cold beneath his bare feet and he shivers in the early morning air.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice scratchy, as he shuffles over and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. The boy stiffens and John pulls away. “You okay?”

“Why do you always ask that?” There’s an edge to his tone, one that frightens John a little.

He cocks his head and leaves his fingers to play with the curls at Sherlock’s nape. “Because sometimes I think you get a little lost up in here,” he says, tapping at the boy’s head with a finger, “and I want to make sure you find your way out again.”

Sherlock seems to relax at that, but his lower lip wobbles. John doesn’t blame him. It’s been an emotional night. He presses another kiss to Sherlock’s warm cheek and steals a sip of the tea he’s made, wincing at the sugar.

“I’m going to take a shower, okay? Might pop home quickly afterwards to head off the chance of Tony noticing I’m wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

“Don’t know why. Wouldn’t be wearing them for long anyway,” Sherlock says, but his voice sounds strange. Forced. Normally he relishes his saucy jokes, infusing them with as much innuendo as possible.  

“Yeah,” John slowly replies, eyeing the boy once more. _Don’t ask again. You’ll just piss him off. Take him at his word._ “Right, I’ll just - ” he gestures vaguely at the door and backs out of the room, regretting not kissing Sherlock one more time before he goes.

xxxxxx

John lets the hot water beat against his upper back as he stands against the spray and lets his head hang low. Last night was probably the most vigorous workout he’s had since returning and his muscles are letting him know that no matter how much his libido appreciated it, they certainly did not. He smiles down at the love bites on his chest and fingernail marks on his arms, proud to wear them for as long as he can until they fade. Then maybe he can add some more.

Shutting the water off, he grabs a towel and pats himself dry, eventually finding his clothes among the heap and pulling them back on with a wince. Sherlock still hasn’t come back to bed, despite the fact that the bedside clock tells John it’s only just past 4am. Maybe he doesn’t need that much sleep. When they’ve got the time, maybe on a lazy Saturday, John will have to show him the upsides of a proper lie in and a bit of a cuddle.

Remembering that his shoes are still down in the living room, he makes his way to the scene of their Chinese picnic, chuckling lightly when he finds it’s all been cleared and his shoes have been lined up next to the still-burning fire. They’re delightfully warm when he slips his feet into them and he groans.

Taking one last look around the room, he murmurs, “At ease,” as he taps one of the nutcracker soldiers on the head on his way back out to the kitchen. Sherlock must still be sipping on his tea, but when John gets there, it’s empty. Hearing a thump from down the hall, he makes his way past the library again and his mother’s study, finding the toilet door ajar and the light on.

Giving a perfunctory knock, he nudges the door open, saying, “Babe, I’m gonna say goodbye so I can - “ but he stops dead, brain trying to comprehend what exactly his eyes are seeing. He clocks the belt around Sherlock’s left arm first, followed swiftly by the needle in his right hand. “What are you doing?” he asks numbly.

Sherlock freezes where he sits on the toilet seat, eyes wide and skin pale. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Sherlock,” he takes another step into the room without meaning to, “I don’t - What the fuck are you doing?”

But the boy can only shake his head. “It was too much. I felt _too much -_ ”

“But you promised.” _This isn’t happening._ His tongue feels thick in his mouth. “You said - you said - ”

“I know what I said,” he snaps. “I just - ”

Anger flares hot and fierce in his gut. “You fucking promised me, Sherlock.”

“Oh so what,” he snarls. “You’ve known me, what, a week? Week and a half? Last night was just - ”

“Just what?” John barks. “Because I know what it was to me. Do _not_ lump last night in with - with this,” he says, gesturing to the drug paraphernalia. “Last night was…” Wonderful. Amazing. Life-altering. “Just don’t.”

Despite the rage in his eyes, a single tear falls on Sherlock’s cheek and John acutely remembers the tears and his clinginess last night. His odd mood and the distance this morning that John couldn’t seem to bridge. Oh god, did he not want this? Did John force this on him?

He puts his hands on his knees as the world tilts. He feels ill.

“Oh don’t make this about you,” Sherlock spits.

“Isn’t it?” John shouts. “We have sex and now you’re shooting up because it was all _too much._ ”

“I don’t need you! I was doing fine before you came along!”

“So it _is_ my fault!”

“Shut up, John,” he seethes and it contains none of the teasing warmth those words did mere hours ago.

“Oh yeah,” John scoffs. “You were so fine.”

“You don’t want me,” the boy retorts. “You just want to fix me!”

John’s anger ebbs away, but not his concern. “You don’t need fixing, Sherlock,” he states firmly. “But this is not the answer.” He holds his hand out for the needle, which Sherlock grips loosely in his palm. The plunger hasn’t been depressed yet. “Come on, love.”

It’s apparently the wrong thing to say.

“Don’t call me that!” Sherlock roars. “Just - just stop with the pet names! Stop with the - with the _caring_! You don’t need to be the hero in every story, John Watson.” He lifts his chin and gets a mean glint in his eye, and John knows that he’s not going to like whatever is about to come out of his mouth next. “What would I want with a wasted soldier anyway?"

Despite his expectations, John feels as though he’s taken a punch to the gut. Like someone has reached deep inside, to a place of warmth and happiness that no one ever, ever gets to see, and squeezed it until it crumbles.

“Fuck off, Sherlock,” he manages after a moment, throat working. “Just - just fuck right off.”

Executing a perfect turn, he spins on his heel and heads for the door.

He may be nothing but a wasted soldier, but at least he knows when to retreat.

xxxxxx

He’s so angry and distraught that he doesn’t even have the gall to call Mike, despite the rational part of his brain telling him that he should. He knows he’s on the precipice of a downward spiral and the slightest breeze could send him careening in either direction. It doesn’t matter that it’s 4am, Mike would want him to call.

Which is precisely why John doesn’t.

He spends the rest of the early morning walking, somehow managing to make it back to his bedsit with aching feet and a hollow heart. He has just enough time to change and haul his sleep-deprived arse to the studio in time for his call (after all, a job is a job), but only because he’s almost positive Sherlock will not show.

Sure enough, he’s not wrong.

When Tony asks John if he knows what happened, John lies. It feels good to lie. Feels good to pretend that Sherlock Holmes didn’t light up John Watson’s life brighter than the tree outside the National Gallery.

They get someone to come in on short notice - another friend of a friend. Most of the sex scenes had been filmed towards the beginning of the shoot because the professional actors wanted to get them over and done with so, thankfully, the scenes that John has left to do with this stranger are relatively benign. Victor is nice, they make small talk while sitting around the table, but he’s no Sherlock.

He’s begun to spend the nights walking the city, if only so he doesn’t drown himself down at the pub with money he doesn’t have. His limp comes back (not bad enough to require the walking stick; just enough to be noticeable), but he pushes through the pain. Mike calls his phone incessantly - Frankie must have told him the news - but John never answers.

A black town car has taken to following him around on his nightly walks. It looks just like the one they rode in on their way to Sherlock’s house. In the beginning, there’s hope in his chest at the thought that Sherlock might be inside, but when the car never stops and Sherlock never appears, the hope turns sour. Turns angry.

When the film shoot ends a week later, they throw a blowout that’s half wrap party, half holiday soiree.

John stays long enough to get properly drunk on free booze and then takes himself home. There’s no walking the city for him that night.

xxxxxx

_Bang, bang, bang._

John rolls over, immediately groans, and presses the heel of his hand into his eye as if making sure it’s still in its socket.

_Bang, bang, bang._

The pounding on his door is almost loud enough to match the pounding in his head, he thinks, and even his thoughts seem to have a distinct slur. Groaning again and glancing at his watch with one eye open, he realizes it’s just after 9am, which is entirely too early for _anyone_ to be seeking him out on a Saturday morning.

The stupid part of his brain that believed in Father Christmas until he was ten thinks it might be Sherlock, but the part that went to war and lived to the tell the tale knows that it is not. Tripping over his blankets, John stumbles to the door and swings it open before even bothering to check who it is.

He wishes he had when he sees Mike standing on the other side, red in the face with snow in his hair like the Ghost of bloody Christmas Present.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” his normally jolly friend snaps, kicking the snow off his boots on John’s doorjamb before stomping his way inside the tiny flat.

“Ow, not so loud,” John begs.  

“Oh, pleasant evening, was it?” he yells, causing John to groan and clutch his head once more. “I’ve been expecting to read your name in the sodding papers. ‘Body of Veteran John Watson, formerly of Her Majesty’s RAMC, found in Thames!”

“I’m sorry, Mike,” John manages when the urge to vomit abates, but his friend has wound himself up and continues to pace the modest length of the flat, ignoring (or not caring about) John’s rather green pallor.

“Frankie told me what happened. The only reason I didn’t pound down this door sooner is because he said you’d still been showing up to work.”

“Yeah, well, I needed the money.”

Mike looks around the bedsit and raises an eyebrow. “No shit.” It’s meaner than he usually is, but John knows tough love when he sees it. Mike sighs and runs a hand through his hair, soaking in the snowflakes. “This was downstairs, by the way. Had your name on it.” He hands over a slim box and John glances at the return address.

“Oh,” is all he can say. It’s the Christmas gift he ordered for Sherlock. He tosses it on his bed and goes to brew a pot of coffee as Mike fiddles with the buttons on his coat. John would offer to take it, but his heating is faulty and frankly it’s freezing in the flat. Mike probably wouldn’t want to part with it.

“Actually,” his friend begins, digging into his inner pocket, “he asked me to drop this off. Or, well, I guess he gave it to Frankie to give to me to drop off. He, uh, I guess doesn’t know where you live.”

“No,” John murmurs, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t.” Then, with a self-deprecating smile, he manages, “Like I’d bring him here.”

Mike looks at him sadly. “You know he wouldn’t care.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“But I know you.”

John licks his lips and steps forward, taking the envelope Mike is holding with thankfully steady hands. He sets it on the small table next to the kettle and wills the coffee to brew faster. It’s his name, but not Sherlock’s writing on the front, and it’s too early for him to deal with that.

“Look, I know Harry’s not around much but Kath and I were wondering if you wanted to come over to ours for Christmas dinner.”

“Sure,” John replies hollowly. “When?"

“Around 6pm?”

“No, what day?” He can feel Mike’s gaze like an anvil resting on his shoulders.

“... the 25th.”

“Right.” He blinks and pinches the bridge of his nose. “And what’s today?”  

“Jesus, John.”  

He hangs his head and just breathes. He’s worse now than he was when he got back from Afghanistan, he knows he is. Because he had a glimpse of what his life could be like and then it was all taken away again.

He feels a hand on his good shoulder giving him a squeeze before he even realizes Mike has crossed the room. “It’s the 23rd, mate.”

John nods and swallows hard, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. “He said I make the world quiet.”

“That’s…” Mike trails off and looks wistful. “Damn, John, what I wouldn’t give for Kathy to say something like that to me. I do not see the problem here.”

“He can’t - he can’t depend on me like that,” he groans, running his hands through his hair. “He’s a drug addict. I’m happy to be a support system, but I can’t be a crutch. That wouldn’t be good for him right now. And in the long run, it would be disastrous. I’ve already - I’ve already caused too much damage.”

Mike sighs audibly and moves away to pour two mugs of coffee from the pot that’s finally brewed.

“He needs you, John,” he murmurs after a moment, handing John a mug.  

“He doesn’t need me. He threw me out of his house. _That’s_ how needed I am.”

Mike shrugs. “Maybe he was scared.”

“Besides,” John continues, ignoring the previous statement because it hits a bit too close to home for his taste, “I don’t want him to need me. I want him to want me.”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “From what I understand, ‘wanting’ was never a problem with you two.”

“He needs to get himself better. Without me,” John finishes, nodding as if to cap off the argument.

Mike rolls his eyes before nodding towards the envelope on the table. “Aren’t you going to open that?”

John takes a sip of coffee, letting the scalding liquid burn his throat as he stares at the unfamiliar writing. He hasn’t seen a lot of Sherlock’s scrawl, but he knows what his Js and Ws look like and that’s not it.

“Yeah,” he mutters after a pregnant pause, setting his coffee down on the table and picking up the envelope instead. With a heavy sigh, he slips his finger beneath the seal and pulls, ripping it open. An official looking document is folded thrice and he flips it open, eyes scanning the paper as he frowns.

“What is it?”

“Blood test results. Dated… ten days ago.” Realizing what he’s looking at, his head snaps up as the paper hangs limply in his hand. “Sherlock never took the drugs.”

Mike stares at him for a moment before clapping his hands together, chubby cheeks pink with excitement.

“Then what the bloody hell are you waiting for?”

xxxxxx

The black car follows him again on his nightly walk, but this time, John gets in, holding the carefully (painstakingly) wrapped present on his lap with his hands just as it starts to snow.

The divider is still up, but the driver clearly knows the destination, because of course he does. Where else would John be going?

Mike had gone out and purchased the bloody wrapping paper himself _and_ the tape to secure it while John dug through his closet for a nice shirt that Sherlock hadn’t seen yet. Not that John actually expects to see Sherlock. No, in fact he wants to make sure he doesn’t. The plan is to leave the present by the front door and see if this mysterious driver (whom John still isn’t convinced is actually human) will be willing to give him a ride back.

That’s it. Game, set, match.

But with every kilometer that he draws closer to the manor home, the more John second guesses every decision that’s brought him here, and by the time they turn into the drive, John is sitting in the backseat with his head between his knees to keep from hyperventilating.

“We’re here, sir,” comes a voice and John jerks his head up to see that the divider has been lowered and a kindly looking man who resembles Mr. Bean is staring at him with a small smile and an all-too-knowing gaze.

“Right,” John croaks, smoothing his sweaty palms on his jeans. “Right. Ta.”

He pulls the handle and opens the door, stepping out onto the pavement where there’s already about an inch of snow painting the black white. With the present in his clammy hands, he walks towards the door, but pauses as he gets closer, only just now registering the music filtering out of the house. The shadows moving across the bright windows. The rows of cars parked up and down the drive.

 _Good Christ._ He’s come on the night of a bloody Christmas party.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” he mutters, jogging the last few steps and leaning the present up against the side of the door, out of the snow, before beating a hasty retreat. The car is still idling just up ahead. He’s nearly there -

“May I help you?” a pleasant voice asks.

“Oh,” John spins, nearly slipping on the pavement, and turns to find a gray-haired woman peeking out of the door. “I, uh, I just wanted to drop something off,” he says, pointing to the gift by her left foot. “I honestly didn’t think anyone would be home.”

The older woman wraps her pashmina around herself and steps further out into the cold, shutting the door and cutting off the din from the party behind her.

“You must be John Watson,” she says, eyes sparkling.

He sucks in a breath, licks his lips, and nods. Sherlock’s mother is… not what he expected. Poised and pristine, sure, but warm. Maternal. Nothing like the cool facade that Sherlock likes to pretend he has. John assumed he must have learned it from someone familiar, but perhaps not.

“Won’t you come in?” she asks, gesturing back towards the guests she’s left.

“No, thank you.” John shakes his head despite the flip his heart does. “I should get going.” He offers her a grateful smile, before turning and trudging down the drive. He can’t get in the car _now_.

“He told us what happened,” she calls and he stops dead, turning slowly. John can’t help but look astonished.

“He did?”

She hums. “I’m sure there are bits he left out,” she says with a coy smile, “but most of it.”

He blushes. “Your, uh, your son is a remarkable person.”

“I like to think so, but then again, I’m biased.” Her expression then turns somber, clashing terribly with the gaiety of the evening. “He has his demons, though, and we try to help him fight them, but the battle is ultimately not ours, is it.” She says this sadly, but matter-of-factly. “He’s discovered a newfound resolve recently, despite his near miss. And I think we all know whom to thank for that.”

“No, no, I - ” John stutters, but he’s saved by the door opening one more time and a tall man with perfectly coiffed salt and pepper hair poking his head out.

“C’mon, lovebug, they’re playing our song.”

Clearly Sherlock doesn’t get that aloofness from his father, either, he thinks with a smile.

“Darling,” Mrs. Holmes says, pinching her husband’s chin and gently turning him to face the boy in their drive, “this is John Watson.”

“Oh, bless me,” Sherlock’s father says, straightening and shutting the door behind him as well.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” John babbles once more. “I really did want to just drop a present off, and this car’s been following me, so I thought - ”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Holmes interrupts with a fond shake of his head. “That would be Mycroft’s doing. Overprotective, that one.”

“Meddlesome’ was I think Sherlock’s word for it,” John replies.

“That too,” his mother chuckles, before sobering. “Won’t you please come in?” she tries again.

“I don’t, ah,” John glances up at the house and the bright windows with their guests beyond, “I don’t think I should.” 

“We’d be ever so happy if you did, my boy,” Mr. Holmes responds and, _Jesus,_ how can John say no to that?

“I don’t want to impose.”

“John, dear,” Mrs. Holmes begins, stepping forward and hooking her arm through his elbow, “you are never an imposition. Now come. I insist,” she continues, leading him through the door where he’s hit with an onslaught of classic holiday music, an intoxicating mix of cinnamon, cloves, and pine, and the kind of joy that only genuine laughter seems to leave in its wake. “I’ll set you up in the library and go tell Sherlock you’re here.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” John blurts, eyes wide as if begging her to reconsider. “We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

“I know, dear,” she says again, cupping his cheek and patting it lightly as if to buck him up, before disappearing once more.

“Here you go, my boy,” Mr. Holmes booms, gesturing him through the library door and handing off a cup of mulled wine. “Thaw you right quick, that will,” he says with a wink before setting something down on the side table by the large leather chair. It takes John a moment to realize it’s his present. “Thought you might be needing that,” Mr. Holmes murmurs and John opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes.

Mr. Holmes’ eyes twinkle and he taps the side of his nose like Doctor bloody Who before disappearing out the door once more. John looks around, taking in the walls of books, the large mahogany desk, the leather chairs, and the globe that must be at least a century old before glancing down at his own ratty jeans and the button-down green and red plaid shirt beneath his coat. It was all he could come up with. This isn’t his world. He does not belong here, as lovely as the people he meets here are.

He sips at the wine and groans at how delicious it is. It both heats his body and soothes his nerves as he awaits his fate. As luck would have it, he doesn’t have to wait long.

He hears him before he sees him, his voice coming muffled through the door, before it’s opened revealing Sherlock backing into what he probably thinks is an empty room:

“Mummy, I _told_ you, I had a perfectly good hiding place in the greenhouse, I do not _need_ \- ”

But John doesn’t hear whatever it is that Sherlock doesn’t need because the boy spins mid-rant, catches sight of John, and all speech promptly leaves his tongue.

“Hello,” John manages, going for that calm indifference that seems to come so naturally to Sherlock, despite the hammering of his pulse.

The door closes behind them with a click that sounds thunderous in the ensuing silence.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, eyes wide, previous moment’s argument gone.

John lifts his chin and grips the cup in his hand tighter. “I really don’t know why I’m here. I just came to drop something off but your parents shanghaied me into the library.”

“Yes, they have a habit of doing that,” Sherlock growls to the now closed door, as if his parents were just on the other side, listening in.

Though, even given what little he knows of them, John honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they were.

“Do they?” he says and it comes out tight. Perhaps he’s just one of many. Perhaps this is one of the little Christmas games they play. But then he remembers the warmth in Mrs. Holmes’ gaze and the twinkle in Mr. Holmes’ eyes...

No, this is not a game for them. This is their son’s life.

Glancing down and gathering himself, he finally allows a moment to take a good look at the boy in front of him. Sherlock is wearing a dark green suit with black velvet lapels, perfect for the festive occasion and probably costing more than one month of John’s rent.

He looks… good.

Painfully silent, but good. John is straining under the weight of the awkwardness.

“I got you something,” he says again, gesturing to the gift on the table, whose wrapping paper is a little warped from the wet weather. “I had already ordered it and it was nonrefundable. I didn’t want to keep it, so…”

“Oh?” Sherlock asks, voice unnaturally high. “Should I - ?” he makes a move for it and John hurries out of the way. Either his eyes are playing tricks on him or Sherlock actually looks hurt by that.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock tears at the paper, letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously and turning the book over in his hands to read the cover.

“Lesser Known Pirates of the 17th Century,” he breathes, voice catching.   

“Never too late to go rogue, you know, if you decide crime fighting isn’t for you.” John shrugs. His nonchalance is failing him. “Get yourself a hat and you’ll fit right in.” He has to stop talking before he starts crying. Why is this so hard?

“John - ” Sherlock starts, but John can’t.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he interrupts, placing his cup on the desk and moving past the boy towards the door. He just can’t.  

“I didn’t take the drugs,” Sherlock says with an almost pleading tone. As if begging John to stay.

“I know,” he says quietly, not daring to turn around. “I got the report.”

“What report?”

John can hear the frown in his voice, the confusion, and that’s what causes him to finally face those blue eyes once more. “The… blood test results,” he says slowly. “The ones you had Frankie give to Mike to drop off at my flat.”

Sherlock tilts his head, opening his mouth to say something, before his features smooth out into an expression of annoyed fury. “Bloody Mycroft.”  

 _Mycroft._ It’s a name he’s hearing a lot tonight. ‘Meddlesome’ indeed. “You didn’t send it?”

“No! If I was going to send you something, I’d make it a little more personal than a bloody doctor’s note.” He looks so flustered, pacing the room like prizefighter, that John has to bite back a smile.

“So you didn’t want me to know that you didn’t take the drugs.”

“No,” he blurts. “I mean - I did! Of course I did! But I didn’t think you’d even want to see me. Had I thought that might bring you here, I would have shipped you my medical files going all the way back to my birth! I just - “ His arms flap helplessly at his sides. “I said such horrible things, I honestly didn’t think you’d care.”

John smiles sadly. “Isn’t that what you accused me of? Caring too much?”

A wave of shame passes over Sherlock’s face. “I’m so sorry, John.”

“I know,” John whispers, stepping forward and gently taking hold of Sherlock’s hand. “I know, love.”

Sherlock smiles and squeezes John’s fingers as his eyes fill. “And I do like the pet names.”

John snorts and swallows, unwilling to believe that the universe might actually be giving him this second chance. “Sherlock - ”

“I love you.”

Time stops. John gapes. “What?”

“I love you,” he says again. “And I know it’s fast, but I don’t care because I knew I loved you that night - that amazing, terrible night - but I couldn’t deal with it. I didn’t know _how_. And the only way I’ve dealt with things I can’t control in the past has been drugs.” He stops and licks his lips, taking hold of John’s other hand as well. “It wasn’t right, but I know - I _know_ now - that I don’t need to do that.”

“No, sweetheart, you don’t.”

The tears that had been threatening to spill now tumble onto Sherlock’s pale cheeks. “I once told you that I’d stay clean for you. But I’m not doing that now. I’m staying clean for me. You’re just… much more enticing motivation.”

John reaches up and cups that cheek, wiping the tears away with his thumb. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs and Sherlock beams, laughing and causing fresh tears to fall.

“What I’m trying to say - what I’m asking is, I guess I’m asking if you can forgive me, John Watson. One more Christmas miracle, for me.”

John stares at him. “One more? What was the first?”

Sherlock smiles softly. “You showing up in the first place.”

John feels himself losing control over what little composure he has left. “Yes, of course I forgive you,” he breathes before pressing their lips together. “I _love_ you, you madman.”

Sherlock pulls away, looking utterly gobsmacked. “You do?”

John nods and swallows, unbuttoning Sherlock’s suit coat so he can slide his hands around his back underneath. “So much, you have no idea,” he says, pulling him into the tightest hug he thinks he’s ever shared.

Sherlock kisses him on the head before burying his nose in his hair and inhaling. “You’d make me feel better if you took your coat off, though.”

“Why?” John asks, voice rumbling against Sherlock’s chest.

“Because I want you to stay the night.”

“What, here?” John pulls away. “In this ridiculous house with your ridiculously posh family?”

“Please.”

“Sherlock, I can’t stay here like this,” he laughs, gesturing down at himself. “You look like a model for Armani and I wouldn’t even pass muster at Marks and Spencer.”

“No one cares.”

“I care!”

“Fine, then. I’ll find something for you to wear if you insist. You’re about the build of one of Mycroft’s drivers.”

“Great,” John snorts and Sherlock glances up.

“He works for MI5, John. It’s a compliment. He should have a spare pair of black trousers in one of the closets of this godforsaken house for emergencies. Won’t be a moment,” he calls, already out the door and leaving John to gape in his wake.

_MI5?_

He picks up his forgotten mug of wine, giggling as he stares at the stick of cinnamon merrily floating on its surface. This is not how he expected this day to end when he got up this morning.

Mr. Holmes dashes in and trades out his empty mug for a fresh one, giving him a firm handshake that sets John giggling again because is it truly possible for one person to be this happy? Surely there are limits.

He finishes the wine while waiting the seven minutes for Sherlock to return, arms full of clothes with his mother fluttering about hot on his tail.

“Mummy, _out_!” he orders, much to John’s delight.

Mrs. Holmes huffs but throws John a wink as she’s bustled out the door again. Sherlock slams it and leans against it, as if barring the way for anyone else to interrupt.

“You. Out of those clothes now,” he says and John raises an eyebrow.

“Are you always going to be so commanding when it comes to getting me naked?”

The question seems to catch Sherlock off guard. “Do you want me to be?”

John saunters forward and presses Sherlock up against the door, giving him a slow grind as he plucks the trousers from his arms. “We’ll see.” He nips at those lips and then turns, stripping to his pants as Sherlock groans from across the room. “Not the time, love,” he singsongs, even though he’s half hard as he struggles to get his legs into the trousers. Tugging them up, they actually fit quite well and when he turns to show them off, Sherlock has no qualms about pinching his bum.

“Hands off,” John admonishes. “The shirt?” He’s handed a deep maroon button-up that perfectly complements Sherlock’s green suit. John has a sneaking suspicion that was planned, but he’s sure as hell not going to complain.

“It’s mine, so it may be a bit tight.”

“A bit?” John asks, taking a deep breath and watching the buttons strain. Sherlock’s eyes darken, though, and he wonders if that was his plan all along. “Good enough for government work. I just won’t eat anything.”

“Bollocks,” Sherlock replies. “Cook will kill you.”

John snorts as he turns and allows Sherlock to help him with his jacket. “Please tell me you don’t actually call her ‘Cook.”

“No, her name’s Matilda, but I do so love to rile her up.”

He turns back and places a kiss on that perfect nose. “I bet you do.”

They stare at each other for a moment, the first quiet second they’ve allowed since Sherlock came barreling backwards into the library and flipped John’s night on its head. John takes his hands once more and walks him over to the desk, grabbing hold of his hips and lifting him onto it, making them more even.   

“I think we have more to say, you and I,” he whispers, not daring to speak any louder. The seriousness of the moment mandates it. “We started this pretty hot and heavy, and things will eventually slow down, but… I’m in this with you. If you’ll let me be.”

Sherlock swallows and leans in, brushing his nose against John’s, just breathing him in. “I’ll let you be anything. Anywhere. Anytime. As long as you know that I’ll have rough moments. Not relapses, but dark periods. Potential lovers should know the worst about each other.”

“ _Potential_ lovers?” John laughs. “Pretty sure we ticked that box already, babe. I could provide you with details in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I’ll never forget,” he practically growls, pulling John flush against him and digging his hands into his arse so they grind together in a perfect roll.

“Oh God, Sherlock, what you do to me,” John moans, getting his lips around Sherlock’s earlobe before a knock sounds at the door, sending John flying back so quickly, he trips over the side table and lands perfectly in the leather chair just as Mr. Holmes pokes his head in.

“Boys? Oh good, you’re decent. Come on out and get some of the good champagne before people are too drunk to notice we’ve switched it out for the cheap stuff.” He turns to go, but pauses in the doorway. “Oh, son, you might want to fix that,” he says, gesturing to Sherlock’s hair which _definitely_ looks like John was just fisting his fingers in it.  

Mr. Holmes gives them a thumbs up and John would love nothing more than to melt into a puddle on the floor. A squeak sounds from his right and he realizes it’s Sherlock attempting not to laugh and failing miserably.

“Your family…” John says, shaking his head and chuckling.

“You get used to them.”

“They’re fucking brilliant.”

Sherlock hums. “They are, sort of. Not Mycroft, but Mummy and Daddy definitely. Speaking of, Daddy is right. We better get a move on if we want the good stuff.” He hops off the desk and holds his hand out to John who takes it without hesitation.

“What do you think?” he asks, spinning to show off his patchwork outfit.

Sherlock hums. “I’m thinking we might have to go back to your place later because I plan on making entirely too much noise to be under the same roof as the people who birthed me.”

“Babe, we wouldn’t even fit in my bed.”

“We’ll make do.”

“You have a whole _wing_ to yourself.”

“I plan on making a _lot_ of noise.”

John stares at him, imagining all of the filthy ways he could ring the most delicious of sounds from the boy in front of him before he shakes his head and clenches his fists.

“For the love of God, get me out of this room before your dad comes looking for us again.”

Sherlock grabs his hand and leads the way, pausing to take a deep breath before throwing open the door.

“Oh, John, you look so handsome,” Mrs. Holmes trills as she hurries up to them, as glass of champagne in each hand as if she had been waiting for them to appear. There’s another woman following in her wake, a friend possibly, one she most likely plays bridge with, who’s eyeing John up and down like he’s a mid-afternoon gin and tonic.

He adjusts his borrowed clothes and tries to blend in.

“So you’re Sherlock’s beau. How did you two meet?” she says when she’s had her fill.

“Umm,” John manages, looking to Sherlock to help, but the git is useless:

“Umm,” he repeats, “Ooh crostini!” He grabs John’s hand and makes a beeline for a waiter with a silver tray of bruschetta across the room, trying not to slosh their champagne.

“Ooh crostini’?” John gasps for air around laughter. “That’s the best you could do?”

“Shut up and eat something. I want to see those buttons straining.”

“I’m your beau, huh?”

Sherlock’s ears go pink as he fills up a couple of napkins with hors d’oeuvres so John stands on his toes and presses a kiss just below his lobe, feeling him shiver against him. Sherlock turns his face and pecks him on the lips before leading him behind the relative safety of the massive Christmas tree in the corner, one of many it seems.

“How was Victor Trevor?” he asks nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly.

John looks up from his bruschetta and raises an eyebrow. “How the hell do you know who Victor is?”

“Oh first name basis, is it?”

“Well you didn’t give me much of a choice there, babe,” he replies, pinching his side and causing him to yelp. “He was fine. Nice.” He holds up his hands as Sherlock nearly growls. “He wasn’t you, so what does it matter?”

“Did you have to get naked with him?”

“Jealous?” Serves him right, the bastard.

But then Sherlock stares down and shuffles his feet, reminding John of that insecure boy who allowed him to lead him to bed and take him apart, only so John could put him back together once more.

“No. No, I didn’t. Apart from the first day against the wall, which you forgot to mention was clothing _on_  when you read that email, we apparently took care of all of that before you left.”

Sherlock licks his lips and nods, still staring at the ground. “Good.”

They’re silent for a moment, listening to the Christmas music and watching the pink-cheeked revelers dance and laugh with one another. John’s heart is full.

“So what about that stand-in stuff? Think you’ll continue it?” Sherlock asks like he isn’t petrified of the answer.  

John leans into him, not even bothering to look up. “Only with you.”

He feels Sherlock hum against him, before those lips find the top of his head a moment later. “I, uh, I think Mycroft has some feelers out at various hospitals and surgeries in the city. Something should come up before the evening’s through,” he says casually and John barks out a laugh, letting Sherlock take more of his weight as those long arounds wrap around his waist from behind.

“I need to meet this mysterious Mycroft. Apparently I’m going to owe him for every good thing in my life before night’s end.”

“God, no. I plan on keeping you as far away from my brother as humanly possible.”

John laughs again and inhales deeply, staring at the controlled chaos surrounding them. “So this is the tradition then, huh? I’ve got this to look forward to?”

“Assuming we haven’t driven you off by next year’s.”

John tilts his head up, letting Sherlock drop a kiss on his forehead. “Are there others? Traditions, I mean.”

“Hmm. What others would you like?”

“Oh, sherry for Father Christmas, matching pajamas, crackers and papers hats at dinner - ”

“No more champagne for you,” Sherlock clips, causing John to let you a peal of undignified giggles. It’s more he’s laughed in _years_.

“Oh come on. Not even Christmas crackers? I know your mum’s gotta have them around here somewhere. It’s what people _do_!”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighs like the put upon young man he is, “yes to Christmas crackers, but I will not condone the perpetuation of the ridiculousness that is Father Christmas.”

“Alright, alright,” he nudges his side. “And the matching pajamas?”

Sherlock purses his lips to hide a smile. “Maybe.”  

“Yes!” John pumps his fist. “Ghastly flannel things that have hoods and footies,” he says before letting out a yelp when Sherlock swoops in and pecks him on the lips.

“I’ll be right back. I have to get something from Mummy.”

“Oh - Okay. I’ll be here.” He watches Sherlock go with a frown at his abrupt departure before grabbing another glass of the good stuff off a passing tray. Maybe the pajamas were a step too far.

Across the room, there’s a tall man with a pointed nose perusing the dessert table. As if sensing he’s being watched, he straightens and stares right at John with a familiarity that he’s come to know and, yes, love.

_Mycroft._

His lips quirk and Mycroft raises his chin, as if measuring the weight of him, before he lifts his glass of champagne in a silent toast across the room. John nods his head in return and tries to infuse it with every sentiment of _I’ll take care of him_ that he can muster.

Giving him a small smile, _Message received_ , Mycroft pops a pastry into his mouth and saunters away.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks as he slides back into John’s space, but he merely shakes his head. Mycroft has disappeared into the crowd once more.

“Nothing,” John replies, turning with a smile and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “So you apparently know what I’m going to do for work, but what about you? You’re only part time at uni for another term and then what?”

Sherlock shrugs, but his words are measured. “There’s a detective who might let me help with some cold cases. He…” he trails off and looks troubled. Ashamed, almost. “He helped me out of a tight spot a few months ago and I’m trying to repay the favor.”

“A tight spot?” John murmurs. He knows what Sherlock must be referring to, but he’s coaxing it out of him. They need to be better at this communicating thing.

“I overdosed,” he quietly admits. “Nearly died. Would have, had Lestrade not found me.”

“Lestrade, he’s the detective?” John asks and Sherlock nods. John lowers his head and buries his face in Sherlock’s chest, inhaling a watery breath and tightening his grip on the back of his suit. “I’ll have to thank him.” Sherlock’s answering hum sounds like thunder in his chest.

“You once asked me what I wanted for Christmas.”

John swallows and glances up. “I did. I assumed it was my perfectly purchased pirate book, but you’re telling me there’s something else?”

Sherlock lets out a rather undignified snort. “Yes, well, that, _obviously_ , but… at the risk of sounding pedantic…” he exhales and meets John’s gaze, saying simply, “all I want for Christmas is you."

John is horrified to find his eyes pricking again and his throat tight. “And is this what people say?” he whispers, eyes darting between Sherlock’s face and his lips.

“I wouldn’t know,” the boy breathes, taking hold of John’s hand and placing a small box in it.

John blinks and it takes a full three seconds for him to realize what exactly he’s holding.

_Dear God._

“Sherlock - ” And the boy must hear the panic in his voice because he quickly says:

“Just open it.”

With shaking fingers, John opens the velvet box to reveal a pristine brass key. He looks up, the silent question etched into his features.

“When I say stay with me tonight,” Sherlock whispers, “I don’t mean your bedsit. And I don’t mean here.”

John licks his lips, chest constricting into something painfully wonderful. “Where?”

Sherlock takes the key out of the box and places it in John’s palm while extracting a matching one from his pocket and holding it up to the light. “Home.”

John stares. And stares and stares. In fact, he stares so long that Sherlock starts to look worried and that just will not _do._

“I have nightmares about the war, frequently get gloomy with the state of the world, and am absolutely head over tits in love with a madman who’ll probably find me staring at him at odd hours as if trying to figure out if he’s real or not,” he rambles, words tumbling out in a rush.  

Sherlock looks confused so John clarifies:

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?”

His love’s answering smile makes the lights around them pale in comparison. And there’s that pesky word again, that beautiful, elusive word that John didn’t think he’d ever find again:

_Home._

It’s been right here, hiding all this time.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, pocketing his key and taking John’s hand in his. “In fact, I think they should.” He leans in and slots their mouths together, gently taking John’s lower lip between his own. “Merry Christmas, John.”

John cups the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together, just breathing.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Love Actually Easter Eggs (Thanks, Richard Curtis!)  
> \- "Oh but you always love scarves!"  
> \- Mr. Bean  
> \- The "Where did you two meet/umm" exchange.  
> \- "... gloomy with the state of the world."  
> \- And last but not least, "All I want for Christmas is you."


End file.
